February 12th, 2012

caillebotte_man at his window

Sorry About Your Holiday, Mr. Lincoln

It's a warmer rain that's falling now than is wont to fall in winter, but as it's as wet as usual, it will serve. The daffodils, I'm sure, all green spikes and about to bloom as they are, would not complain, even if complaining were a thing daffodils did ever do. Did no rain fall, and did I forget (I'm so forgetful anymore) to water the daffodils, then they would die, and even then they would not complain, even if etc, etc. The rain has undoubtedly saved them from that fate. They would be grateful, were gratitude a thing daffodils did ever show.

Me, I won't complain either, and complaining is a thing I do with with alacrity; with the greatest of ease; at the drop of a cookie I was about to enjoy, for example. Daffodils and I, we are unlike in so many ways, yet this we share in common: neither they nor I will complain that this rain is warmer than one expects one's winter rains to be. It's enough that it be rain, and that it nourishes the soil, the plants, the ear, the mild winter night.

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