Again the rain,
and I wander
the tender green grass
of the field.
The hands pull weeds
because the hands
want something to do.
And the mind looks
for morels, because the mind
wants something to do.
And the feet wander,
because they are born
nomads. And the heart
opens. Not because
it wants to, but
because there is something
in the scent of rain
that suggests
so much is possible,
even, against all odds,
beauty. Even, though
it seems impossible,
another day.
Beautiful and timely … and written as I am about to go for a walk in Central Park, where new things and little living things and extravagant growth make meaning in the chaos, and are just as real, and perhaps, the reason to keep voices ringing.
Thank you, Na’ama … here’s to extravagant growth and meaning in the chaos. great comment!
🙂