By holding their leaves upward, the tender young plants in the garden catch even the slightest trace of rain and send it running down their stems and trunks directly to their roots. The cedar, on the other hand, after absorbing what it will, sheds the rest around its perimeter, retaining just enough to show off as jewelry when the sun peeks through the clouds again. Later, as the air warms, the rhododendron flower is an oasis for thirsty bees. And the water itself? It is not a mere substance, or object, or subject for discussion, but a willing, loving, living participant. In its own way, and by its own genius, even as it blesses and bestows, it, too, drinks.
May 27, 2021
Blown by the breeze, a raindrop landed on the bare foot of a child sitting in his mother’s lap on their porch. The boy laughed and pointed at his foot. His mother smiled. When a man walked by with his umbrella, their bright faces turned into flowers. Further along, the man stopped and became a tree. And so he remained, solemn and wise, until the end of that welcome June rain — the rain that changed everything.
Poems, Slightly Used, June 6, 2009
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