Now that half the sky is hidden by new foliage this day comes bringing the look of winter. Still, the air is soft enough, and the flowers are plentiful and exuberant. Maybe it looks a bit more like April than like March, but the sky seen between the fresh leaves is decidedly gray. The crickets chirped briefly once the sun got low enough for the house to cast the back yard into shade, but they fell silent with the early chill that arrived when it settled behind the trees. The frogs persist, though, croaking as if in anticipation of the rain that might or might not come. Maybe they are trying to summon it, to extend the life of their streams and ponds. If I could sing as well as they I'd join them, but my voice is only comfortable writing texts. I wonder if whoever brings the rain hears the Internet buzzing through the wires?
by R.S. Thomas
It was like a church to me. I entered it on soft foot. Breath held like a cap in the hand. It was quiet. What God was there made himself felt, Not listened to, in clean colours That brought a moistening of the eye, In movement of the wind over grass.
There were no prayers said. But stillness Of the heart's passions - that was praise Enough; and the mind's cession Of its kingdom. I walked on, Simple and poor, while the air crumbled And broke on me generously as bread.