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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.