Knute Skinner
Her Pale Raincoat
I watched her approach
wearing her pale raincoat,
with a faded blue scarf on her head.
The rain had stopped already,
and all it had managed -
in spite of its heady thunder –
was a brief, desultory drizzle.
The dogs would be sleeping again.
The raincoat, my father would have said,
was wishful thinking,
but then his wishes and hers
were, literally, miles apart.
We met under a sky
recently black, now blue,
and taking her hand, I led her
into the trees.
My father would be watching that sky
and looking at his parched land.
We found the path to the cabin.
My father would be asking my mother
if she knew where I was.
Page(s) 75
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