It's not raining here. But perhaps one of you somewhere is reading this in a warm town while rain falls romantically on your tin roof. And the air is warm enough that you could walk outside for a little splash in your flip flops. Perhaps I'm nostalgic because this is my first "summer" in San Francisco where it's constantly in the 60s and I keep forgetting it's July. But I just needed to read this poem today and be reminded of that metallic feeling of rain coming on a 90 degree day. So, wherever you are, rain-appreciator, this one's for you. (P.S. Sorry the poem's a little sad.)
Heavy Summer Rain
by Jane Kenyon
The grasses in the field have toppled, and in places it seems that a large, now absent, animal must have passed the night. The hay will right itself if the day
turns dry. I miss you steadily, painfully. None of your blustering entrances or exits, doors swinging wildly on their hinges, or your huge unconscious sighs when you read something sad, like Henry Adam’s letters from Japan, where he traveled after Clover died.
Everything blooming bows down in the rain: white irises, red peonies; and the poppies with their black and secret centers lie shattered on the lawn.
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