It is raining today, but it is a sweet kind of rain. Gentle and quiet.
When it rains in spring, all is quiet.
The farms and fields are hushed by
some sweet lullaby that calms and allays fears.
Rain falls in the country like a balm to soothe
the cold and cracked winter earth,
a live-giving drought that the soil drinks eagerly.
The fields become an old world scene,
a quaint pastoral vision,
a landscape from long ago.
Through this antique glass I cast my eye upon
the wonders brought out by the rain:
Lambs prancing merrily in the cooling drops and
bounding though small puddles.
Their black faced mothers chide them from the barn door.
I see the apple orchard over the hill,
the rows of blooming trees, robust and hearty.
In fall their fruit will yield a mighty harvest.
A pair of ducks court in the little pond o’er
yonder, fanning and swimming circles around
each other, they do not mind wet weather.
I withdraw from my antique view of the world
and make for the barn for eggs. My footsteps
are muffled in the sodden earth. Yesterday
I would have started with each step,
but now I plod on in silent reverie, my thoughts
lost in the quiet of spring rain.