(no subject)
First Monday on Sabbatical
For nearly an hour this morning,
I listen to the steady rain
as it beads along the eaves
and patters to the walk
in detonations small, irregular,
that language has no word for.
These lavish seepings that
soak the tree hydrangea to its roots,
that ping the bucket blue,
free us from the human drive
to measure things, to fit
the rhythms of this world to rhyme.
These plashes, this seething vibrato,
shape the morning
only in their constancy:
wordless, tactile, wetly random.
Richard Taylor