That the rain persists, I am pleased. That, through the night, gusts of wind have driven it against my windowpane with a satisfying clamor, I am most delighted. That the fresh, cold air rushing in my window clears my head and invigorates me, I am quite ecstatic. A February rain is a splendid thing. I have listened for hours as it cast itself over streets and lawns and rooftops, making sound of their shapes and textures. I have remembered how it sounds in the midst of the woods, collected by the pines into larger drops which fall with heavy, muffled splats onto the soft, needle-carpeted floor. I have heard the runoff bubbling out of the downspout, and noted how it makes a softer and higher-pitched version of the sound it will make when, gathered with other rivulets and streams, it will plunge along the canyon as part of the river, its basso profundo thundering from the cliffs. The entire night has been turned liquid by these descending clouds. I am cleansed.
by Mark Strand
Now in the middle of my life all things are white. I walk under the trees, the frayed leaves, the wide net of noon, and the day is white. And my breath is white, drifting over the patches of grass and fields of ice into the high circles of light. As I walk, the darkness of my steps is also white, and my shadow blazes under me. In all seasons the silence where I find myself and what I make of nothing are white, the white of sorrow, the white of death. Even the night that calls like a dark wish is white; and in my sleep as I turn in the weather of dreams it is the white of my sheets and the white shades of the moon drawn over my floor that save me for morning. And out of my waking the circle of light widens, it fills with trees, houses, stretches of ice. It reaches out. It rings the eye with white. All things are one. All things are joined even beyond the edge of sight.