Rain

It all begins with thirst-quenching rain.


This dry birdbath is now full.


The flowers are revived.



It's hot as hades outside. Gratefully, we've watched as line after line of storms move through. We're under a severe storm watch now. It sure beats those cicada-chanting, devil's anvil, sun-pounding last few days.

The bird baths are full to over-flowing. The flowers are refreshed and other than the weather - I've got bupkis. (Oh! Had to post the formerly yellow, elongated, oval shade-loving eggs in case Bev stops by and get her opinion as to whether they're still growing or just sizzled)

I'm going to drop this little poem on you with the hopes you'll find it pleasant - like an afternoon rain shower.


Rain


Since I was a child
there’s never been a rain come round
that didn’t find me leaning close to the other side
of a window
Watching the first drop, then another and another
and another . . . quiet . . .tentative . . .
Making small clear trails in the breeze-deposited
dust on the other side and the tempo rising
And some inner pulse matching drop by drop
the slap! slap! slap! of the stippled curtain of water
that pelts and runs, pelts and runs . . .
Where moments ago there were a window,
a sleepy summer afternoon, butterflies lacing
among the marigolds, pansies limply awaiting
Evening’s respite from the sun . . .
Now scalloped waves choreograph
the pebble-pounding on porch roof, sidewalks,
steaming pavement and parched flower beds.
And when the pelting slows to shifting mesmeric
rain patterns on the street . . .
Time itself stops to listen to the rain, rain
. . . the Rain.


Catherine Wilson

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