Of Rainfalls and Change
The world has begun to change, again. The hours stretch out strangely, until I hardly recognize them. The light falls differently, lingering in old instants, where it once disappeared. Somewhere, a bird calls to another, but the rest is silence, save for the soft falling of rain.
That’s it. That’s what keeps me, now. The quiet caress of water on the earth, a storm cloud that empties itself of life, and hardly anyone notices. The inconvenience of it, the slick road and damp shoes, is remarked on – but what about the beauty of it? The smell of rain is one of dirt and magic, full of its own fleeting scent. It is one of possibility and change. And yet, in the midst of a day, we often overlook the miracle. We fail to see the sparkle in a single drop, in the way it glistens on a spider’s web.
(Except today. Except now. )
The air has turned its face to colder moments. Sweaters have been removed from boxes. Rain boots have been retrieved from the corner of the closet where they’d been banished. Firewood is gathered. Hot chocolate sought out. It is the beginning of a more trying season, one of snow that falls in silence.
(But forget tomorrow. Remember today.)
In the distance, the leaves have burst like fireworks, but the transformation isn’t whole yet. Gold, orange, and red against the green – a reminder. A beacon. A transitory marker for that which has come before it. Summer’s final flourish. Its goodbye heralded in the arms of branches.
It is a perfect offering of beauty.