I watch the rain

After Isaiah 55

I watch the rain

steady drops without pattern

a simple profusion of atomized water

refracted by light as it falls

from white vapors, billows

the drops fall on hill

and mountain, field and

valley, so profuse that

some run off, ricocheting

into streams and rivers

flowing like words

words from the heavens

atomized into droplets of light

cast upon the mountains

and hills, freshening the fields

and valleys, a sustenance

of creation.

Photograph by Eutah Mizushima via Unsplash. Used with permission.

Walking

This morning

I took a walk

in the rain;

it was very wet.

This morning

the rain changed

to snow, and then

I was very wet

and very cold.

The sun came out

and I had visions

of itsy bitsy spiders.

Photograph by Marina Shemesh via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

Rain, St. James Park

This rain, cold, already

has drenched my American

walking shoes and socks,

each step a frigid squish

to the tune of Yankee Doodle,

like stepping through snow

covering amber waves of grain.

Summer’s last day, already

embracing fall, ivy leaves

barely beginning to redden

against a gray-white but no blue

sky, a few yellows dotting

the trees, a slight turn

to impressionism.

The park’s perimeter, already

surrounded by commuters in cars

and on bicycles, a rainy mayhem

of horns and watery whooshes

splashing unwary walkers and

joggers in the dawn’s early light,

the back of my English sweatshirt

already soaked by a combination

of steady rain and small umbrella.

I’m smiling.

Photograph: St. James Park, London, taken Sept. 22, 2015. The London Eye is barely visible above the trees in the left center of the photograph.

Rain

I listen to the rain, trapped

within my walls, fearing

to brave the storm, waiting

until it relents, allowing

me to walk the garden, free

of damp, of wet, of cold

the rain continues

I remain within

my walls, dry

and warm, my heart

safe from the storm

Photograph by George Hodan via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

It’s not winter yet

It’s not winter yet

but it should be

            leaves gone

            frost, chances

            of ice, sleet

            but not snow

            yet

watching the rain

through a glass wall

puddles pimpling

with raindrops

dreariness and darkness

dreariness of soul

and spirit

the man walks by

with his umbrella

open

sit by the glass wall

watching the rain

watching the reflection

curtained by rain

it’s not winter yet

Photograph by George Hodan via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

Not good biking weather

I sit near the door

man in tights

black Lycra shorts

my favorite jersey

six-years-old

yellow helmet tucked

under my arm

I sit near the door

waiting out the rain

my mind on the asphalt

I should be biking but

I’m not so instead I read

a poem or think I read

a poem or imagine I read

a poem, Luci Shaw perhaps

hiking a rocky seashore

or Wendell Berry walking

the woods and keeping

the Sabbath especially

in the rain

I don’t need trails

in the woods or rocky climbs

by the seashore, not today

anyway instead just a ribbon

of asphalt that replaced

the railroad tracks that

carried dreams then

but now the dreams

are carried only

on two inflatable tires.

It’s still raining.

Photograph by George Hodan via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.