It's raining out, hard enough and thick enough to notice. Not a total surprise, as there were hints throughout the day. I guess you could say I'm lucky to be indoors. And yes, I wouldn't relish being out in it all that long.
On the other hand, I also feel fortunate to be hearing it. Rain is good. It refreshes and renews. And it's an outer expression of something within us too. Water, of which we are three fifths? Melancholy? Maybe both.
On the other hand, I also feel fortunate to be hearing it. Rain is good. It refreshes and renews. And it's an outer expression of something within us too. Water, of which we are three fifths? Melancholy? Maybe both.
3 comments:
There are times I enjoy the rain more than others; in daytime when you must be out taking care of business it can be an impediment (I detest walking along busy sidewalks carrying an umbrella or getting bumped and poked by others), but at night when you can just relax and listen to a downpour or the soughing of a gentle rain watering the trees and sidewalks can be peaceful. Rain makes me think of poetry.
I don't mind at all carrying an umbrella outside, but there are times it doesn't really serve the purpose. High wind, say, or when there are cars driving through puddles. That's when you want to stay in a covered area, doing indoorsy things.
Yeah, rain can be a poetic experience. And has inspired some quite good poetry.
"Horses and Men in Rain" by Carl Sandburg
Let us sit by a hissing steam radiator a winter’s day, gray wind pattering frozen raindrops on the window,
And let us talk about milk wagon drivers and grocery delivery boys.
Let us keep our feet in wool slippers and mix hot punches—and talk about mail carriers and messenger boys slipping along the icy sidewalks.
Let us write of olden, golden days and hunters of the Holy Grail and men called “knights” riding horses in the rain, in the cold frozen rain for ladies they loved.
A roustabout hunched on a coal wagon goes by, icicles drip on his hat rim, sheets of ice wrapping the hunks of coal, the caravanserai a gray blur in slant of rain.
Let us nudge the steam radiator with our wool slippers and write poems of Launcelot, the hero, and Roland, the hero, and all the olden golden men who rode horses in the rain.
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