WOMAN RAIN
The fence over the hill goes on –
meets another at an oak tree near
the section corner you can’t see
from here. It’s not as old as the walls
of rock along the creek, or the granite
potholes worn into slabs by smooth
phallic pestles passed hand to hand
by generations of women. Dad and
Harvey built it in the 40s after
the atom bomb ended the war –
mushroomed in the dreams
of everyman. It kept us honest
for awhile, and left unpressed
the cattle stayed at home
and the neighbors got along.
Joe Bruce calls to say it’s a 'woman
rain' he’s driving through somewhere
near Colorado Springs, soft drops
on his windshield, his wipers clear
a heavy mist in six-second sweeps –
yesterday’s same sweet tenderness
that lingers now in iridescent greens.
Yet the fence over the hill goes on
and on within the minds of men.