A Little Feminist Rain
By Tessa Denton
They always warn of our Seattle rain, downpour–
an umbrella the nod of a foreigner.
They repeat the rain in complaints,
of coats on costumes
and the inconvenience of our gloom.
On our pacific coastline,
they don’t see the things we grow.
The things we grow
between grassy mosses, mushrooms blooming
from the crevices of the Earth,
an interconnected system of intersecting selves
where we huddle but don’t hide.
The frogs serenade in solidarity
as we struggle to steal sleep.
Old ideas gathered these clouds that
meteorology can’t measure,
crested on snow-crusted Rainier in eulogy
of the names we honor in our flood.
So, first comes rain –
comes unrest, protest, resistant crowds
of droplets drowning clogged street drains.
So first, we have to scream, hike barefoot over muds
that streak social, political, perpetual strain
on our drenched bodies.
Spot the dandelion on the Space Needle’s highest point –
something you call a weed
will spread everywhere you don’t want us.
You might not like the rain,
but nothing will grow without it.
We will seek a necessary skyline of gray
to sprout our dreams in sidewalk cracks.
For all that,
wouldn’t you say a little rain’s worth it?
