Anticipation by Rae Iolene

Anticipation 

On the cusp of rain 

these storms are more internal than external.

We wait for the Paschal moon

light pink in glory. We say,

Hello, Ostara, Hello, spring goddess. 

The air is sweet amongst

dead leaves and loamy soil. 

This is melancholy, D.H. Lawrence would 

declare, asking for tea as the scent of 

chrysanthemums blow through his yard, 

or is it Frank O’Hara sipping on coffee 

with a bit of sour cream? Well, I say 

no thanks to that—the mundane 

activities of rich men and dead 

poets—just give me a shot of espresso

straight. What is life if not a series of

small actions leading to either a

fleeting second, or a 

spiral down into a tomb of granite.

But as I sip the bitterness, 

relishing the bite, I can’t help

but notice yellow daffodils in bloom

just as the first raindrop splashes 

across my cheek. Hello, hello, hello,

I chant. 

I chant, but Lady Spring has yet

to answer back. 

xx. Rae Iolene

31 March 2026