Country Rain

His grandfather had owned a farm
Far from the city bustle, where
Easter eggs were cleverly hidden
in the nooks of trees.
Some were found, and placed in
wicker baskets filled with plastic grass.
Others were left to rot.
One boy, clad in overalls, didn't eat eggs,
so he threw them at his grandfather's ducks,
one by one, because back then he
didn't know anything about pain.

Sixteen years had passed,
and the boy, now grown,
drove his pickup truck through
that country town,
in search of his late grandfather's farmhouse.
It rained and rained,
and even with his road map in one hand,
and a cup of cheap coffee in the other,
he didn't know the address.
Somewhere in those creeping provinces,
that house surely still stood.
Perhaps he had already passed it.