Today was the perfect spring day. Rain was falling in a slow and soaking shower from a dense, grey cover of clouds. Majestic trees captured the water in a million budding leaves and let it down in rivulets through ruffled bark and moss. It was just warm enough to keep the damp from being chill. And, best of all, countless children made their way, in tow, to the morning market, dressed in the most wonderful collection of raincoats - frogs and plums, ducks and fairies, on and on - an endless and fanciful menagerie of youth.
Under the Rain
The rain, rebellious, drops down,
to make a mirror of the land
in silver puddles scattered round,
where little feet cavort, unplanned
and happy in the heady scent,
the splash of water on the brow,
to dash and dance in merriment
beneath the bent and dripping bough
that briskly works, but works in vain,
to keep the sapping soil dry,
as curled leaves collect the rain
and loose it with a pattered sigh,
and all around, fresh, fleeting shoots
unfold and open in the spray
that satisfies their thirsty roots,
so long denied and hid away.
This is the season, this the press
of life, awoken in the seed,
when somber clouds and damp duress
bring boundless joy to our need.