Rain Walk

A poem about the unknown and home

A wet Whittier walk takes us out 
while others are weathering
inside at work, in car, or cafe.

We're without, my family,
shelter or occupation
save to traipse beneath drops and see

The hills half-hidden in fog
like the homes and yards we pass
behind shut doors and high hedges.

The kids spy stepping stones between
two homes leading through 
a jasmine-wreathed gate into
an unknown.
And look! 
There's a window in that roof,
an attic perhaps.
And a gap under bush
going somewhere 
we're not given to know.

Can we peek o’er fence or in window
to discover how we’d live
in another’s half-hidden space?

Back to our home that we own,
we pile boots and jackets
by the rear door.

On the stove, broth boils down frosting windows,
and we’ll have clean sheets on beds
when the dryer is done.

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