Standing out in the rain this
morning with my coffee,
tucked as best I could under the
eaves, an occasional
drip off the roof finding my mug or
the top of my head,
the mist blown against my face, the
playful sound of rain
splashing and bubbling in the pools
now forming in my yard.
It is peaceful here, though, as it
always is with the rain, the drip
and droplet falling into itself,
puddling, that steady yet arhythmic
beat of raindrops drumming softly around
me, the earthen smell
of autumn, wet leaves, musk and
must, pungent and earthy, the lake,
even, rising to the moment, its
mirrored surface shattered by the storm;
and, too, the old memory recalled
of a yellow slicker and rubber
boots splashing in the puddles of
my youth, in the puddles of age.
