Rain pelts down in some of the scenes,
Falling thickly onto the parking lot,
Rolling in sheets, low waves
following each other
down the broad slope
towards the near edge.
And elsewhere, it high-fives the waving leaves,
with patter-smack repeated in cascading rounds
as the wind rolls through.
In other scenes, the rain is tucked away
for interludes of wind alone,
Gathering the landscape
in its casual repetitious circles,
Sweeping it up in preparation
for the next course of rain.
The sun is not pictured here;
To find it, you must go back in memory
to earlier this morning, when it splashed
a few sweet swaths of warmth
across the land.
No matter, we warm-blooded creatures
And all the swelling seeds —
their code of growth impelling
their own kind of heat —
Will tend our inner suns
until the outer sun returns.
©Wendy Mulhern
April 6, 2013
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