Morning Rain

Morning rain is weeping

Onto the windowpane.

Pitter-patter, as it fills the edges of overturned buckets,

And any crevice it can find.

Pale yellow light peers through the mist,

Illuminating shiny rocks,

Turning moss a greener green.

Fresh rainfall awakens the aromas of the earth:

Honeysuckle, savory grass, and damp dirt.

Droplets bounce from sturdy green leaf,

To sturdy green leaf, in soft plunks,

And run off into the ground.

White chiffon ruffles into dance,

As nature’s sighs trail through open windows of an empty room.

The aged and weathered bedroom chest,

Darkened black with grooves from years of use,

Releases the rich cedar incense

From its ancient forest past.

But the smell wafts into the morning air, unsensed.

No one is here to see the house fly

Flitting wet-winged in a droplet on the windowsill.

No one to see the reflection in the mirror

Of the hummingbird hanging in the air outside the glass.

No one to hear the calming wash

Of the earth perpetuating spring.

No one to see nature’s most elegant, age-old show,

Put on by merely existing.

How demure is earth in her cycles,

How humble in all her beauty.

She spares in her patterns no luxury.

It therefore seems wasted

That this morning bath,

No one was here to see.