Rain on a Tin Roof
by Susan Lembo Balik
I can still hear the sound of rain
on a tin roof, the one my dad put up
fifty years ago, even though
it’s been months since it collapsed
in the winter storm, even though
the mangled metal
has been carted away.
I can still hear the drumming
that lulls like white noise, hear
the pinging that pelts the canopy,
so melancholy, so relentless,
it can wrap me in grey, pull me
to my center, like a good book,
a meditation,
a prayer.
I can still hear the sparrows’ sweet
song, the ones that nested
in the corner eaves, see
the babies that didn’t make it
all those springs when I was young
how I’d avoid their broken
bodies splayed on the brick patio,
I can still see the one that survived
that February night, how he
hopped among snow drifts
and sharp tin, confused,
wondering
what had happened
to his home.
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