Rain. Days of rain. Soft, silent, falling on the roof, dripping on the breezeway, rolling down the gutters to pour in a constant stream out into the back yard, like a waterfall. Rain, heavy, heavier, heaviest, jumping the gutters, pouring, roaring like a roiling river, puddles becoming lakes, lakes rivers, endless, ceaseless. And growing alarm: Will it never stop?
And then it does and suddenly, a glimpse blue sky in an upside down world, the twin moons of lemons in the tree topsy-turvey now, a reversed fence and a curious Finn McCool in his through-the-looking glass world delicately stepping around the shimmering puddle to sniff the air and stare at the bright blue sky.
Happy Holidays to all.
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6 comments:
A splendid and delicious poem. I especially enjoy the arrangement of photographs with word-inspired images.
Very nice Ann, Thanks.
Anytime you want to really experience rain head on up to my new digs.
We don't measure rainfall in inches, we use yards.
Mike, where are you at now?
South Beach, Oregon.
(It's just south of Newport, just across the bridge)
Home is on a sixty foot bluff over the ocean.
Wow. Pretty nice.
These photos remind me of that old rhyme:
"Two men looked out through prison bars. One saw mud; the other saw stars." You have captured both, Ann!"
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