The rain slides, hisses and splatters on my front walkway. The drips resonate louder up close, but the drone of a steady soaking rain fills the air with sound which makes my eyelids heavy like the downpour. Perfect reading weather. Perfect writing weather. Perfect napping weather. Perfect weather.
I wish I could capture, with images or words, the vividness of the greens outside my window. In the springtime, in the rain, the virgin leaves are illuminated from the inside, just like multi-colored ones in the fall. The beginning of life and the end are both filled with light. They each have their own kind of beauty. These greens are so bright in the downpour of daylight they draw my eye in every direction at once.
The texture of the branches and trunks is coarse. If bumpy had a visual image these woods would be it. Moss, lichen, fungus, each their own green, blend with the deep chocolate of the bark and create a contrast which is mutually beneficial for all. A blended quality of rough and smooth, coarse and fine. The constant rain soaks into the wooden shafts rising up at all angles. The shades of brown darken to almost black with the moisture, causing the greens to pop even more than on a dry day.
Rivers of pollen-filled water roll down the driveway into the street. It is as if the heavens declared today bath day. Fresh buds, frons, blades, and leaves stand in the shower. The flow of the water rushes over them. From top to bottom. Rinsing off the season. Freshening up. The air too will be fresh and clean once the rain has passed. Ready for deep breathing. Ready for clear sight and fresh breezes.
I wish I could write the rain.
I wish I could write the greens.
I wish I could write the glow.
But some things are not meant to be written. Or captured. They are only meant to be experienced. I feel it every time I attempt to apprehend the stirring nature causes inside of me. I so want to share what I feel. I grasp my camera or my computer to try to express the awe in my spirit. I peck at keys in hopes that words will formulate on the page. Yet, they are out of reach. I cannot give the gift I have received. I can only receive it and be grateful for rainy days that speak without words.