Even the new plants in the garden
have had enough of the spring rain.
Winter lingered. True spring passed us by.
Warm, moist, green jumped to May summer.
Brushing rosemary and sage scents the air.
Robins brush their wings against window screens
attacking reflections of their own nesting instincts.
They started nesting in the pine tree
outside the bedroom window under our gaze.
Today, three blue eggs match the sky.
That earthy, pleasant scent we all know
but can’t quite describe from rain falling
on dry ground. A word from Greek
“petra” for stone but “ichor” for what
flows in the veins of the gods.
The three dry months meant no floods.
We made our own rain each evening
for flowers and vegetables, top-coating the soil
with a wet darker brown, but never
deep-soaking enough to really change the world.
Grass yellowed and dry as a brush.
End of summer. Dry creek bed. Fires.
Only haiku rain. Short. Not a story,
but a brief observation: wetting the surface,
ground like concrete, nothing for the roots.
I was thinking about an Einstein quote while watching the rain falling.
“Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute, and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute. That’s relativity.” ― Albert Einstein
That inspired today’s ronka poem.
The rain has made the day longer
than twenty-four hours. The air is thick.
We walk slower. Clockworks struggle a bit
to advance. Time and space bend me
and this 5/14’s of a rainy sonnet.