holy moly!
it is 4:44 in the morning of august 6 ~ 2021
there is a soft and tender rain pattering across
the pavement, the yellowed dry grasses,
the folded yard umbrella - table and chairs..
out in my barefeet to feel the moist..
barely enough wet to soak into my thirsty feet prints
hardly a trickle to dampen my morning bed head..
yet rejoice! hallelujah! praises in all things drizzly!
a poem seeps into my head..
sara teasdale
there will come soft rains..
googling to post it this drippy morn..
i find a short story by beloved ray bradbury
there will come soft rains
about 5 pages
it is august 4, 2026.....
o my o!
a worthy shocking read..
bradbury at his best..
~ further on my search.. sara's poem ~
published just after the start of ww1 and
in the midst of the 1918 flu pandemic..
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white,
Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.
