It begins to rain. After a weekend of forecasted storm, it arrives only when lazy Sunday has turned to evening on the porch. We sit reading to the sound of it plittering down on the leaves, as the frogs and birds grow silent in the distance. The groundhog is tucked away. I meander over work, the ease of the country like a cloak over my heart, I do not fret, because there is no fret. Tomorrow calls for returns, but the fireflies around the porch lights beg to differ, we are all fools in love.
I wish there was a pithy lesson here, a wise word with which to tie together this message, but I have none to offer. Gas is $5 a gallon and the nation falls apart, but the fireflies around the porch lights beg to differ.
The rain abates. You think poetry is what happens when you let the stillness speak, instead.
No comments:
Post a Comment