A Green Rain
The rain itself is not green
but it falls for hours,
soft and penetrating
like a massage for sore earth muscles.
I am not out in the yard
but standing beside a window,
hands deep in my pockets
watching gray winter
turn green, weeps in pools
as pungent dirt cleaves,
birds like notes
on musical branches.
I’m tempted to step outside,
let the rain wash over me
but it’s still a cold green,
shivers rising from a place
deeper than my pockets,
fingers counting in the dark
how many sweet peas possible,
how many hollyhocks.
NICE! Such a transitional, hopeful time of year. “Shivers rising from a place deeper than my pockets” . . . love how precise and visual the last stanza is . . . quiet fingers moving slowly like roots starting to untwine.