Rain and Root Beer

by Karla Alice Renee

I.
We used to sit on the porch when it rained,
And my mother drank IBC Root Beer.
They were special, not meant for me,
But sometimes, she’d let me have one.
We’d rock back and forth as the rain came down;
It was music falling on timpani leaves.
The soft white noise that calms, rejuvenates,
And makes everything wet, everything wet:
The wood soft,
The ground squish,
And puddles swirl with powdery dirt.
It was our symphony and theatre, back porch parapet,
The sweet smell of sassafras and honeysuckle,
And goose bumps on supple skin.

II.
The rain here is harsh but infrequent,
Drying up soon after it begins.
It smells of salt and sulfur and sounds like
Gorillas slapping the cement with open palms.
The wind stirs spiny, iced nuclei shrouded in desert dust;
It gathers in gutters and splatters cars,
Filling roadside aqueducts and draining away.
The ground resists,
The trees endure,
And the natives don’t know any better.

Karla Alice Renee grew up in East Tennessee with her mom and two sisters. Later, she graduated with a Marketing BA from the University of Utah, where she edited copy for the school’s newspaper and snuck into History of Rock ‘n Roll classes. In similar fashion, she now spends her days writing website content for businesses and what’s left of her nights writing for her music blog, ExplorersTM.