Waiting for the falling breathing rhythm of rain
It’s time, we say. & we look at the harsh white snow frozen and piled and chilling.
Time, you see. February. Past January already.
The snowmen have lost their happy holiday smiles and turned to malicious leers treacherous fingers & anrgy hair, hearts of frozen slush & glowering from blinding white faces with peppered pocks marked where the trees slightly thawed to drop dripping with teasing turned ugly.
It’s time, we say, as if this impromptu committee of the lethargic could elect the entrance of the unseasonable weather we want to send us to the water to bring us to the open earth to wash flowers out of the ground. To stir the air to breathing.
They say it’s because I’m from Seattle. That’s why I wait for the rain. But it’s not that. It’s before that. Rainy days when I’d sleep on the porch and listen to the earth opening arms raised to receive. Rainy days when I’d stand at the open window of a dark room silent before the pattering pounding. Rainy days sprawled on the carpet, reading to the rhythm of the falling water.
Rainy days of falling flashing washing booming beating breathing rattling down through leaves. Rain to fall softly dropping dipping down slowly into little rivers through cherry blossoms drifting lazy in circles without deadlines.
It’s time, I say, it’s time. Chin lifting to the glazed sky refusing to soften it’s heart of snow to the pleasantry of rain.