It's raining this morning--gently, gently. Patches of green infiltrate the bleached grass, and robins hop ceremoniously among the worms. Yesterday I planted lettuce, arugula, cilantro, radishes. So much remains to be done.
Outside the kitchen window, the little finches cling to the bars of the wet feeder. Rain drips and spatters, from roof edge, from budding branch, from dry needle. Inside, a clock ticks. A man sighs. A cup rattles in a saucer. There is something waiting, some future.
I've been thinking about that Amy Lowell poem, "Patterns," which I shared with you a few days ago. For some reason I cannot get her images out of my mind. Is she cracking the mirrors of Sidney and Raleigh and Marvel? The poem does cling, and with an Elizabethan adhesiveness.
And the splashing of waterdrops
In the marble fountain
Comes down the garden paths.
The dripping never stops.
Underneath my stiffened gown
Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin,
A basin in the midst of hedges grown
So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding,
But she guesses he is near,
And the sliding of the water
Seems the stroking of a dear
Hand upon her.
What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown!
I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.
All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground.