There will come soft rain...
and the smell of the ground.
a murmur in the trees...
...the leaves unhooked themselves
I am sure it is a great mistake always to
know enough to go in when it rains.
One may keep snug and dry by such knowledge,
but one misses a world of loveliness.
I am currently reading Steinbeck's
The Winter of Our Discontent.
I found it ironic that I read the following passage
the very evening the winds and rain blew through:
A day, a livelong day, is not one thing but many. It changes
not only in growing light toward zenith and decline again,
but in texture and mood, in tone and meaning, warped by
a thousand factors of season, of heat or cold, of still or multi-
winds, torqued by odors, tastes, and the fabrics of ice or grass,
of bud or leaf or black-drawn naked limbs. And as a day changes
so do its subjects, bugs and birds, cats, dogs, butterflies...
(Caramel looks better than a few weeks ago, huh?!)
All was silent as before--
All silent save the dripping rain.
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow~