Then the rains came,
washing away the remnants
of the passing year,
washing away its anger
and its conflict, its pain
and loss, everything false,
dissolving them completely.
All it left were the tokens
of goodness, the miracles
and healings, the kindness,
the truths told, the reaching
for connection, everything
–and only those things–
born of love.
Stand beneath the heavens,
beneath the vast canopy
spread above you to remind you
that, although you are not supreme,
you are valued enough to warrant rain,
adored enough to be given fragrant winds,
loved enough to be granted the sight
of this glorious, cloud-strewn October sky.
Let the nights grow longer.
Still, we will hold the sun.
Let the fierce winds blow.
and the rains fall.
Usher in the cold.
Still, we will hold the sun.
For the sake of your joy,
in memory of sweet summer,
until our days are done,
we will shine on,
in praise of the glorious sun
Here’s to the flower gardeners,
to those who, on bended knees,
poke little seeds into the soil,
so carefully prepared–wishing
each one well, trusting wholly
in its urge to grow–
who bring blessings of water
when the rain doesn’t fall,
who keep the weeds at bay,
who smile at the first shoots
as proudly as at babies,
who love them and cheer
them on, for no reason except
knowing that they helped
birth beauty and joy.
Every now and then, as if to reassure us,
the sun slides through an opening in the clouds.
It keeps us from falling into pits of dreary gloom
as we slog through this endless spell of rain.
If you grab one of those precious sunny hours
and walk the path, now deep with wet grasses,
that runs between the woods and the overgrown
field, you find that the wild things are thriving.
Flowers bloom, buds prepare to burst,
Seeds grow fat and get ready to fly.
Grasshoppers bounce from leaf to leaf.
Small butterflies dart from bloom to bloom.
The leaves on the trees are full and singing.
And beyond the creek, the tilled fields
sprout emerald rows of corn and beans.
You can’t stay long, of course. The clouds
are gathering for another blow. And besides
you’re soaked up to your knees. But still,
you’ve seen the reason for the rain,
and your spirit has been satisfied
with little tastes of sunshine.
Windlessly, clouds creep
in from the west,
their weight easily borne
by the thick, dense air.
In the garden, parched plants
ache for rain. The trees’
spring-fresh leaves droop
in the stillness, praying.
Finally, off in the distance,
a deep rumble rolls and
all the green things hold
their breath in hope and
anticipation. It takes an hour
for the rain to begin.
But then it falls like a blessing
in fat, cool drops that plunk
like the strings of a bass
on the hosta outside
the kitchen window.
And the fragrance of wet soil
wafts through the screen
and everything breathes
in longed-for relief.
Had it not been for you, Mom,
I may have gone through the world
blind to its beauty. I may have missed
the tenderness of a blossom’s petals,
the wonder of its hues and form.
The songs of birds and of breezes
rustling through silky springtime leaves
may have been nothing more
than a background sound, hardly heard.
I may not have noticed how rain
can soothe, how thunder can thrill,
how dew on the grass sparkles
like diamonds, had you not taken
the time to show me, and to whisper
that it all sings the love of the Yes
as surely as a mother croons to her child.
Clouds covered the sky even before the run rose.
It managed to flash a crimson greeting as it peeked
above the eastern hills. But then it was gone and May
spent the day showering the green landscape with pearls.
And green it was, as if during the night every bud got the call
to awaken. No wonder it rained. Had the sun illuminated
the scene, we would have been overwhelmed by the glow.
It was intense enough in the rain.
More is on its way: more rain, more green.
And as if to prepare us for the coming splendor,
between the rains, as evening fell,
the sun painted the sky in brilliant hues.
Be ready. More grandeur is yet to come.
One thing about April, she lived up to her legend.
She brought in the rains for the flowers of May,
and scattered bouquets of her own, rainbows
of blossoms and myriads of leaves that painted
lacy patterns against her cloud-swept skies.
She teased us with warm breezes and swept
away the last vestiges of winter’s snow.
She whispered life into the earth’s frozen veins
and sang sweet songs of waking to us all.
And now, beneath soft clouds of pearl,
she slips away, carrying with her our thanks
and heart-felt joys and farewells.
It’s not like you flip a switch and here it is,
full-blown, with lush greens, tulips in blossom.
Spring is more subtle than that, refined,
you might say. She glides in slowly,
sometimes mild and sunny, sometimes
cloaked in rain and snow. But her light
proclaims what her weather may not say,
and new birds were singing at her dawn.
Keep faith. These are but her first hours.
Spring has miracles up her sleeve.