The rain drums down like red ants, 
each bouncing off my window. 
The ants are in great pain 
and they cry out as they hit 
as if their little legs were only 
stitche don and their heads pasted. 
And oh they bring to mind the grave, 
so humble, so willing to be beat upon 
with its awful lettering and 
the body lying underneath 
without an umbrella. 
Depression is boring, I think 
and I would do better to make 
some soup and light up the cave.

Added: Feb 27 2003 | Viewed: 3110 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Anne Sexton
Poem: The Fury Of Rainstorms
Volume: The Death Notebooks
Year: Published/Written in 1974
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