by Michael Garrigan
Only after getting wet does she ever realize it’s raining;
even obvious storm clouds and thunder can’t ruin the surprise.
One time a cricket jumped off the tip of tall grass where she was
watching it balance and landed on her arm, just below the blue jay
tattoo on her wrist. She watched as it read her world with its antennae,
smelling and seeing her with its palps, always searching, never stilling.
She wondered what would make her become quiet long enough
to settle—a handful of grapes? how his hands cradled and crawled
up and down the maple ebony of his stand-up bass? a mourning dove
being stalked by a cat?—Until she realized she was staring long
after the cricket had jumped back into the field. It was raining;
each drop a full stop, a held stillness until it touched something else.
::
Michael Garrigan writes and teaches along the Susquehanna River in Pennsylvania. He is the author of two poetry collections — River, Amen and Robbing the Pillars — and his writing has appeared in Orion Magazine, The Hopper Magazine, and North American Review. His work has been nominated for Best of the Net and The Pushcart Prize. He was the 2021 Artist in Residence for The Bob Marshall Wilderness Area and he believes every watershed should have a Poet Laureate. You can find more of his work at www.mgarrigan.com.
Image: Ed Leszczynskl
ID: Water drop on a pine needle.
Psaltery & Lyre 