RAIN

Rain would come straight down were it not for the wind sending it slant left.  The fledgling sunflowers bow before it as if in prayer and I think how early in their life it is, wonder if their stalks will take the storm in stride.

We are wet this year.  Things are shades of green that have no name except “joy,” cloud shadow and bright sun teasing shades and hues from a new palette. Only the magnolia, brought in last Fall, seems resistant to this riot of exuberance, turning yellow, losing leaves, new growth trying then dying like my own goals of the past year.  Thus, I can sympathize.  It and I find ourselves at odds with where we are planted, have drawn our roots in, see pointlessness in making any plan in the face of change.

I watch the sunflowers yield, flex, stand, their faces skyward toward the hidden sun.  I recognize their instinctive movement – like my own response to the dark of the moon, it’s light a memory lodged in my bones, my soul responsive to its gentle call.

I vow to learn new steps:  how to sway and whirl with gusts, rest on soft currents, turn my face forward toward what is hidden but moving nearer, nurture seeds that I may never see grow.