Soft Rain

You might recognize my debt to Sara Teasdale’s There Will Come Soft Rains. It is a poem that I first read in high school and it has haunted me all these years. The message is clear; the world will carry on without us. I simply substituted the pandemic for war.

Come spring a soft rain will fall.

Tears from above to cool us all.

Some relief from the hot ash of decay,

And still the silent flower blooms.

A splash of color against the sky.

Under the porch, the Robin eggs are blue.

How can there be so much death, I ask,

If the birds continue to sing so true?

Why did the sickness wait so long,

To catch us up as the days turned warm?

Mother’s creatures roam beyond the fence,

Not knowing or caring where we went.

Penance for the fool in each of us,

For callously losing our way.

Blind to reality, a destiny not our own,

We are told to embrace a brand new day.

Living life on the edge of a blade,

As we quietly bury the dead.

While the soft rain falls upon us all,

So many things left unsaid.