Musings
an Online Journal of Sorts

By Alyce Wilson

Woke up this morning, and the rain was coming down. Coming down, coming down. I'm 'bout to drown.

That's my little blues song for the day.

The Northeastern U.S. has received plenty of airborne water in the last month, and the weather reporters are still complaining about possible drought conditions.

Apparently, we could have rain every day, every minute until the end of time and it would still be considered a drought. I bet even the corn in the fields is saying, "Hey, stop already!"

This reminded me of rainy days of yore. First of all, having spent nine years (nine years!) in State College, Pennsylvania, home of Penn State, I am quite familiar with the wet stuff. An urban myth in that area claims that State College is the second rainiest town in the U.S., second only to the legendarily soaked Seattle.

I've had rainy vacations, such as a thunder storm on Assateague Island so severe that my family had to pick up our floating tents and pack off to a local hotel room. Last year, while visiting my brother and his wife in Vermont, we were stuck inside watching the Discovery channel most nights due to relentless evening rain. And then there was a camping trip in Ithaca which inspired me to write this poem.

Ithaca Rain

gets in everywhere; it creeps
between seams, invades
your laundry bag, soups up
on your sleeping gear. Ithaca rain
trickles down your neck, puddles
in your clavicle, seeps down your spine.
Try to evade it, and Ithaca rain
will follow. Try to protect yourself,
Ithaca rain will git ya nohow.
You'll find it under your seat,
in your sandwich, between your toes,
you'll find it floating in your campstove,
oozing down your eyeball, grooving
on your radio. You'll find Ithaca rain
any darn place it wants to.

But you don't understand. You think
it's out to get you. But it doesn't know
about that. It doesn't know anything.
It's just rain.

                                       July 11, 1996

Copyright 2003 by Alyce Wilson

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