On the surface, this poem by Sam Hamill starts off sending off summer and welcoming fall.
By the third verse, he has taken your attention with the woes of the world and the simple pleasures of life. Showing us what really matters, like the laughter of a woman and her touch.
The human heart always has a desire for love, the longing and the peace it brings with it. He also brings to the surface the side that we all choose to ignore. That love isn't always smiles and rainbows, love is also "sometimes rapturous, noisy, almost uncivilized, and knows no boundaries, no borders."
Sam Hamill takes a twist when he starts writing about what we all seem to ignore, our own solidarity. He goes on to talk about how we all need silence. That time to recollect our thoughts and come to the realization that in the end we are all going to be gone and washed away with the rain when our journey ends.
After Morning Rain
By: Sam Hamill
A few small sails, barely moving,
dot Fidalgo Bay. As the sun burns away
the last pale clouds, a confluence
of robins descends to explore
my neighbor’s garden—
brown grass, muddy beds and the last
fading roses of the year.
It is September, the end of summer.
My backyard maples turning orange
and red and gold. From my high window,
the great mountain looks
painted on the horizon line,
small mountains at its feet, then
headlands and the Salish Sea below.
I can read no more today
about the agonies of this world,
its desperate refugees, the men
of arms and gold whose death tolls
are as numberless as the stars.
I’ve grown weary, impatient,
as I’ve grown old.
After this morning’s rain, I dream
only of a woman’s gentle laughter,
her fingers on my arm as we sip wine
in the evening, telling tales,
lighting the heart’s small fires
that will get us through the rains
of autumn and dark winter.
Alone at my window, I watch
a silent world and find it
welcome, my own silence welcome.
Longing has its own quiet place
in the human heart, but love
is sometimes rapturous, noisy,
almost uncivilized, and knows
no boundaries, no borders.
And what am I but its solitary
pilgrim—lost, found, lost again—
on the long journey whose only end
is silence before the burning
of my body, one last moment
of flame, a whiff of smoke
washed clean
and gone with the rain.
