Sharon Tracey's poems have appeared in The Worcester Review, Mom Egg Review, Tule Review, Common Ground Review, and elsewhere. Her full-length poetry collections include Chroma (Shanti Arts, 2020) and What I Remember Most Is Everything (All Caps Publishing, 2017).
Walk in the Driving Rain
Mud is the medicine these days it seems
the rain won’t leave us well enough alone,
and its sharp drops have now congealed to fill
an open tomb with lake. No measured dose,
it smells like death and so you grieve, pull on
your boots, and take the only path you know
across the tracks to reach beyond the curve,
and there it sits above the ooze, makeshift
bridge without a name, with footholds and a
wooden rail to grasp above the drowning
world. Listen. Can you hear the beavers splash-
slap as they work, stripping bark for spare parts
to build a dome above their water door,
spackling mud to protect the womb, to warm.
There was something
I could never name, a gauze,
a permeated pause
caught between comfort and alert. A wave curled between beach grass and the empty porch.
Afternoon amber, Cape Cod reflection.
A trace of gold threaded the windows.
House with two chimneys for blowing smoke and mirrors.
A grand dame on her own glassy hill. She shivered in a skirt of curtains,
accepted the cold kiss of the sun.
A cloud passed.
What is out of reach?
I stood alone and felt the ocean.