It’s unusual for rain this time of year. After a beautiful Fall, November waltzes in tossing sleet and snow like a flower girl at a wedding. It’s a miserable time–no leaves on the trees, dead grass, and no snow to cover the mess.
Tonight, though. Tonight I’m taking refuge at a friend’s hundred year-old farmhouse. Rain pounds on the window and thunder rumbles through the bones of the building. You can feel the rumble through the floorboards.
Thunderstorms are one of my favorite parts of summer. I love sitting on my front steps with Dad watching the clouds roll in. When the lightning gets too frequent, we move indoors and listen.
Having a storm in November feels like a belated birthday gift.
I’m in love with you. The thunder that presses against my windows send a shiver of pleasure down my spine. The pattering of raindrops makes me feel cozy and safe.
Yet… How am I supposed to get anything done with your constant pestering?
You inspire the desire to shirk all responsibility. I can’t stop thinking about you. I want to spend time with you, to stand in your downpour and get soaked to the skin. I want to soak you in.
I want to curl up in a sweater and leggings in a large chair and watch you transform the normally vibrant colors out the window to a mass of fuzzy grey. I want to drink tea and read poetry aloud, letting the cadence of the words rumble in time with your thunder.
Will you wait for me, Rainy Day? Will you linger until my work is done? Will you save up a whisper so, when I crawl in bed tonight, you can sing me to sleep?
All my love,
This post is inspired by an assignment for the Blogging University class Writing 101: Finding Everyday Inspiration.
I heard the weather before I saw it. The wind blasted against my windowpane, causing it to shake and shudder. The thing about living on the fourth floor of a building, though, is that weather look worse than it actually is. When I stepped outside in my blue dress, headed for church, I was pleasantly surprised. The wind was strong, but not overpowering. A slight drizzle fell, forming small puddles on the path.
I could smell Spring coming. And I thought of this poem by Sara Teasdale.
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white,
Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.