We had a good soaker last night; I looked out at 2 am when the storm was at its worst, flashing, crashing, and roaring overhead, and saw the rain coming down in sheets. This morning a tub left outside has over an inch of rain in the bottom.
So no more singing the dryland blues here. Rather, since I was awake in the night, I jotted down this haiku as it came to me. Lexico supplies this definition for PETRICHOR: A pleasant smell that frequently accompanies the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather.
rain in the night
the petrichor a promise
of golden grain
I had lots of opportunity to ponder life, love, and the path of tornadoes while the storm was making such a racket and debouching over our heads. Thoughts like: If a tornado hit our home, which of our belongings would we miss the most? And, Why didn’t I put my laptop away in its case, where it would be more protected? Irrelevant thoughts, perhaps, but what other kind do you have at that hour?
I remembered all the scribbled verses on scraps of paper floating around my computer desk. They’d be lost in the storm and the brilliant thoughts (?) forever forgotten! Rather than giving in to the blues at 2:30 am, I resolved again to get the worthwhile ones typed in and saved in DropBox.
Not a new thought. When I jot an idea down, I have every intention of dealing with it promptly. However, like clean laundry waiting to be folded and put away, they tend to pile up on my desk, awaiting processing.
Still as children asking why
adults gaze upon the sky.
Still as children, grownups seek
reason for the comet's streak.
Still to sages, baffling are
sun and planet, moon and star.
On a garden's tiny space
miracles are taking place.
And as children, age explores
God's bewildering out-of-doors.
Questioning, till the day they die,
Life's great mystery -- how and why?
This poem by Edgar Guest takes me back to a time soon after the Stock Market Crash in Oct 1929, when the world was plunged into the Great Depression. The winter of 1930 saw a double whammy happening: in the East the economy was sinking fast as jobs were being lost; in the West the drought had begun and was to last, generally, until Aug 1937. All this while Hitler’s armies were moving into various countries and war clouds were gathering over Europe. Yes, this old world has seen some pretty tough times. As Mr Guest points out, the flowers know nothing of financial woes.
Hello, tulips, don’t you know
stocks today are very low?
You appear so bright and glad;
don’t you know that trade is bad?
You are just as fair to see
as you were in times when we
rolled in money. Tell me how
you can look so happy now?
Hello, tulips, white and red,
gleaming in the garden bed.
Can it be you haven’t heard
all the grief which has occurred?
Don’t you see the saddened eye
of the human passer-by?
By his frowning, can’t you tell
things have not been going well?
Hello, tulips, in the sun
You are lovely, every one.
But I wonder, why don’t you
wear a sad, expression, too?
Can it be you fail to see
things aren’t what they used to be?
This old world is all upset;
why don’t you begin to fret?
And they answered me, “Hello.
Nothing’s altered that we know,
warm the sun and sweet the rain,
summer skies are blue again.
Birds are singing and we nod
grateful tulip prayers to God.
Only mortals fret and strive.
We are glad to be alive.”
Today’s prompt at Jibber Jabber with Sue is HAPPY, which brings to mind this verse by Edgar Guest — and I think it’s suitable for Mother’s Day.
Happy Mother’s Day to all you mothers out there, to all of you who’ve borne and raised children, also to those of you who have been a home-maker and/or mother-mentor to someone in need of help.
The Joy of Getting Home
by Edgar A. Guest
The joy of getting home again
is the sweetest thrill I know.
Though travelers by ship or train
are smiling when they go,
the eye is never quite so bright,
the smile so wide and true,
as when they pass the last home light
and all their wandering’s through.
Oh, I have journeyed down to sea
and traveled far by rail,
but naught was quite so fair to me
as that last homeward trail.
Oh, nothing was in London town,
or Paris gay, or Rome
with all its splendor and renown
so good to see as home.
‘Tis good to take these lovely trips,
‘tis good to get away,
there’s pleasure found on sailing ships,
but travel as you may
you’ll learn as most of us have learned,
wherever you may roam,
you’re happiest when your face is turned
toward the lights of home.