We are fickle.
By the second spring rain,
We are already waiting
for summer to come.
We are so fickle.
We see, and feel,
The drops of water
come against our faces,
And we shiver, congested,
Someone lets us sleep in, or
Does a chore, or runs an errand,
and after briefly feeling grateful,
Soon we find some new minor hindrance
to raise a ruckus about.
It is still raining, though—
If you pay attention.
And the slick sound of the cars
rolling past and far away
somehow fails to marvel you.
Perhaps out in the world,
An airplane full of people waits
for the rain to clear. At the delay,
The people still feel some minor irritation
even once they are lifted into the heavens.
There is so much to fear, to loathe, to waste—
But how emptied life becomes,
When all the marks and blips of beauty
are left to fester, turned to sludge,
amidst all that is wrong in the moment.
The beauty that surrounds us
Is not of a single moment, but transcends
And is waiting, on both sides of the traffic,
For our attention to return, to set in,
But only if we are ready.
Someday, when you can, if you can,
Go out in the nighttime, while it still rains,
Walk aimlessly, or run some errand,
And allow your face to be painted upon
with a thousand miraculous raindrops.
Because even if we all must inevitably return
To market conditions and interpersonal relations,
Along with all the many petty shocks of living—
There is some strength in mundane beauty,
sought and caught from outside of time:
not much, but perhaps enough.