Last Sunday I waited and waited for the rain to stop. I was desperate to get out, to walk in my beloved Gardens. Finally, I just put on the rain gear and went. Somehow the Garden in a gentle cleansing rain is a blessing. The usual Sunday crowds don’t materialize; in fact it was kind of deserted, the way I like it. You see things you would not notice were it not for the rain. And a poem came….
A Rainy Sunday
Softly, the rain invades
my worried world,
its whispered touch washing
whatever’s in its wake:
Sated trees, shining
with sweat laden leaves.
Dainty droplets dangling
off pine needles
and holly berries.
The once anemic Bronx
River swollen into
hyperactivity.
Even Le Sportsac is
soaked to the skin
mindless of my efforts.
September Sunday rain
doesn’t ruin
a garden walk.
It brings the path
into focus.
© E.M. Ramos 9/27/2009
1 comment:
Now you know why I send Sierra out in the rain! Lovely poem.
Love, T.
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