It is the Saturday before Memorial Day and it is
raining. I feel that I should say
something poetical about it. I am
waiting for the poetic muse to strike me.
For the seeds of creativity to sprout.
Hmmm. It rains. It is raining. It shushes.
Rain firehoses its way across the lawn.
Rain schloffs softly over the grass.
It pours.
OK, so my muse is on vacation or something. It, however, is pouring out there, dribbling
over the back of the air conditioner in my window, pattering on the windows,
and when the wind blows it– it– it- does something whispery…
I could make metaphors.
I’m good at metaphors, especially the mixed kind: Rain dumps like the laundry of an unmarried
kid home from college for the weekend.
Rain splatters like a can of blue paint tipped from the top of the ladder
onto your white carpet. Rain stands
around the porch in filling galoshes, waiting to come into the back hall and relieve
itself the rug. Rain makes mud with the
same eagerness as a six year old in the sand box with a glass of water.
Rain is inevitable.
You can’t start it or stop it, you can only endure it. Sometimes you stand in the dry furrows, like
a farmer looking to the horizon, hoping for clouds. You breathe it like relief when it becomes an
extension of hard-purchased irrigation water, yet you fear it, knowing how
quickly it can stick the leaves of fledgling crops to the thick mud. Just the right amount, you whisper to the
elements. Please, this time, just the
right amount.
There are so many things like rain. Children, for instance. You hope for them, but inevitably, as the
days get long in their presence, just endure them. Then they’re gone, and you wonder where the
time went. And other things: Jobs that become merely vehicles toward a
paycheck. Days that drag. Meetings (any kind). Winter.
It rains. I
endure.
It can only last so long.
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