I realized that it would be good to post this before we'e so far into spring that it's not so relevant.
April rain
after a dry winter.
Some night visitor ate both
baby cucumber plants,
but the tomatoes are fine,
the fresh garden verdant
in the soaked soil.
A tiny bit of mist
floats down onto my cheeks,
invisible to the eye,
as the sun struggles
to break through.
This is the sky
that reigns over
the tiny plot of land,
this urban refuge
in a world of turmoil.
It is a hugeness, this sky,
changing, changing,
full of billowing clouds
at this moment –
this moment of breath
and herbaceous scents,
of a light breeze rustling
the tender new branches
of the Japanese maple
and the reaching shoots
of clematis vine.
These are the tall trees,
redwood and pine,
who lift their bodies
high above the houses,
whose unseen roots
intertwine beneath
the earth.
This is my heart,
heavy with fear and sorrow,
burdened with uncertainty
and resistant to accepting
the fact.
There is a show of sunlight now,
between drops of mist,
between the rain that was
and the rain to come.
Between. As we all are.
Between life and death, of course,
but also between breaths,
between times of connections,
between moments.
Each between is
an opening,
each between a space
in the clouds,
each between a possibility
of letting go, a possibility
of ending, a possibility
of love.
