by Caitlin Breen
Just after seven I drove into the rain,
which was mist until it wasn’t, until the air
seemed to spawn raindrops at eye level,
already moving at velocity toward the earth.
The earth, which seems parched or else drowning. The earth
which seems so steady beneath me. The noun
which becomes proper when we drop the article: Earth,
whose mass pulls the rain to her surface. Earth,
receiver of the rain, her own seas and rivers
returning as the lost daughter to Demeter, her eyes
wary as if to spot a deception, her arms even so
flung wide.
Caitlin Breen (she/her) is an elementary teacher and writer living in eastern Connecticut. Her poems have been published in Here: A Poetry Journal, The Core Review, wildscape. literary journal, and others.