It Rains This Time of Year
Stood beneath the branches of the oak,
Mud and dampness rising from the ground,
It rains this time of year, I think I spoke,
When no one else was there to hang around.
In the gushing torrent on the slate,
Surging from the roof and to the pipe,
Whispers seem to echo, resonate,
And raindrops from my eyes I need to wipe.
For I don’t ever cry despite it seems
That sadness shadows haunt upon my face,
It’s just the lonely rain that always teems
This time of year and in this very place.
I see a past when chestnuts lay on grass,
And she was like a willow, lithe and svelte,
We drank of apple wine in crystal glass,
And in the dusk I found out how she felt.
Beside the crackling fire in the hearth,
I tasted her and she thus tasted me,
I somehow knew we walked a separate path
And all we built with words would never be.
As I recall she left me in the fall,
A note upon the pillow by my head,
And at the time I didn’t care at all
Just carved another notch upon the bed.
It was raining when she went, is raining on,
And even now, on times, I sense her near,
So much for futile wishing, she has gone,
I only know it rains this time of year.
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