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[Dec. 6th, 2015|10:34 pm]
rejectomorph
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If there was any heavy rain last night or this morning I slept through it, and it didn't last long as my back porch was dry, which it never is after a sustained heavy rain. Since I woke up (about half past one this afternoon) we have had no more than sprinkles, drizzles, and mists punctuating periods of dry, gray sky. No clear days are predicted for a week, and six of the next ten days either will be or could be rainy. It's going to be getting colder too, after Wednesday. Chances are I won't be able to go shopping without risking a soaking next week, as both Friday and Sunday have a possibility of rain. And winter doesn't even officially begin for more than two weeks.
Well, we're certainly getting the water we wanted, and the mountains are definitely getting some snow. Now if it keeps on this way through February we should have at least one more decent spring before the whole place dries up and blows away. For now, the night is full of the sound of dripping, the damp seeps deeper into the soil and roots lift it back up, into the blades of grass, the leaves of bushes, the dripping, bare branches of the trees, to where next spring's new twigs will grow, and the leaves that will follow them. I hear no sounds other than the dripping, and my own breathing. For now, it sounds like a world that will survive.
Sunday Verse
Water
by Lawrence Raab
1
Whichever way water
turns it touches
itself turning in another direction
Invisible now
now reflecting whoever
finds himself looking
beneath the line of the wind
You remember the rules
Water seeks the level that pleases it
making a place for itself
wherever it chooses
calling everything
it touches its own
and falling back
in its own good time
2
Hundreds of feet beneath you
it creeps along a fault
drop by drop widening the rock
softening an edge
breaking off a splinter
So a cave blossoms
Water counts the time but does not care
You could learn from it
Speak to it of your troubles
Ask about your wound why it
refuses to heal
Ask about absence
Water has spent a long time learning
how to fill with itself
the space of a missing thing
3
Wherever it can go water goes
On your window
the early frost has drawn a map
and the small cloud of your breath
fades from the blade of the knife
The shape of someone like yourself
drifts in the shelter of still water
You reach down
A maze of circles meets your hand
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