A poem is a spider web
Spun with words of wonder,
Woven lace held in place
By whispers made of thunder.
I wander the barnyard
studying the complexities of web design,
marveling at a tiny creature’s creation
of connection by the slenderest thread.
Through words and pictures I whisper
from my own corner of the web
and wait patiently for the shimmer of connection:
my rumbling thunder has been heard.
All day I have been closed up
inside rooms, speaking of trivial
matters. Now at last I have come out
into the night, myself a center
Beneath the clouds the low sky glows
with scattered lights. I can hardly think
this is happening. Here in this bright absence
of day, I feel myself opening out
All around me the soft rain is whispering
of thousands of feet of air
invisible above us.
~Wayne Dodd “Of Rain and Air”
…he sought the privacy of rain,
the one time no one was likely to be
out and he was left to the intimacy
of drops touching every leaf and tree in
the woods and the easy muttering of
drip and runoff…
He could not resist the long
ritual, the companionship and freedom
of falling weather, or even the cold
drenching, the heavy soak and chill of clothes
and sobbing of fingers and sacrifice
of shoes that earned a baking by the fire
and washed fatigue after the wandering
and loneliness in the country of rain.
~Robert Morgan from “Working in the Rain”
There will be plenty of whispering and muttering this coming holiday weekend if the weather prediction holds out to be accurate for three days of rain.
Rain is what makes this part of the world special, but like Camelot, most people would prefer it would never fall till after sundown. It is not a more congenial spot than Camelot.
I may be an oddity, somewhat typical of northwest-born natives. I celebrate rain whenever it comes, whether downpour or whispering drizzle, before sundown or after sunrise. I grew up working outside in the intimacy of a drenching shower, yet am always happy to have an excuse to stay indoors to be putterer more than mutterer.