Proper decent lovely rain. Beautiful stuff. To celebrate, the earth shook.
And it's true I bought the pie and the sourdough loaf parbaked from the supermarket and then heated them up in my oven, but they made the kitchen smell just like I had baked, so that counts.
Pretty, pretty roses.
A humid Sunday evening is the perfect time for half a Mary Oliver poem, wouldn't you say? This is from Where Does the Dance Begin, Where Does it End?Don't call this world adorable, or useful, that's not it.
It's frisky, and a theater for more than fair winds.
The eyelash of lightning is neither good nor evil.
The struck tree burns like a pillar of gold.
But the blue rain sinks, straight to the white
feet of the trees
whose mouths open.
Doesn't the wind, turning in circles, invent the dance?
Haven't the flowers moved, slowly, across Asia, then Europe,
until at last, now, they shine
in your own yard?
Don't call this world an explanation, or even an education.