It's been torrential around here lately; and when not torrential, drippy. Wet, constantly. The dog is looking at me with betrayed eyes, wondering why ball-playing cannot commence, why the outside has suddenly turned hostile.
Someone from my Sangha has sent this poem to put the rain in perspective. It's by Mary Oliver.
Lingering in Happiness
After rain after many days without rain,
it stays cool, private and cleansed, under the trees,
and the dampness there, married now to gravity,
falls branch to branch, leaf to leaf, down to the ground
where it will disappear--but not, of course, vanish
except to our eyes. The roots of the oaks will have their share,
and the white threads of the grasses, and the cushion of moss;
a few drops, round as pearls, will enter the mole's tunnel;
and soon so many small stones, buried for a thousand years,
will feel themselves being touched.
Nice, huh? Now, if only I could get my dog to understand it...