Greens in Winter Rains

The rains continue drenching my garden beds that lie naked in standing water. What grew in sunshine and warmth of longer daylight hours,  absent now from the view through my window.  Alongside on the walkway, thick moss builds up in cushioned verdant patterns--dense, low and vibrantly green.  The key to all golf course putting greens lies in the amount of water,  I conclude.  No wonder there are some that look like deserts all year 'round and others, like moss gardens.

Another month of shorter days before we turn about at the Solstice towards the lengthening daylight.  We still have time, though, to settle deeply within, to search for something that this longer darkness might offer to those who pay attention to seasons, timing, relationship to themselves and others and to the context of life itself.

And the rain keeps giving.  In waves.  Like an oscillating sprinkler pelting rhythmically against my window. Its dependability centers me with its constancy and intensity.  At times, with an urgency that suggests perhaps, just perhaps, it is time to write.

I wrote a poem about rain the first winter I moved here.  I had no idea of rain's consistency and volume until these last few days.  Perhaps more poems about rain will be born this week.  Someone told me recently that Scorpio's were Valentine creations.  "Ah," I said back.  And laughed. All these years, I wondered about all the Scorpios in my family!  My parents were true romantics.  I might have another go at a rain poem if the monsoon pelting my windows doesn't ease up a tad bit.

See you soon, fellow writers--inspired by whatever pushes you to your edge!

Kat
24 November 2016