Rain

The rain is falling; a relentless, pounding, ceaseless rain that hits the deck and the windows of this old snug farmhouse, and - if the wind is blowing from the East - sometimes seeps in between the old wooden casements. We're in the process, this summer, of re-roofing and re-siding, but for now the ancient, painted wood still keeps the worst of the weather at bay.

The sound soothes me; the rhythm lulls. I have thoughts jumbled together, past and present and future. Memory and illusion, reality and truth. It's all good, this kaleidoscope of life, turning and mixing, and creating patterns out of small things.

Tonight in the rain, random lines of poetry cross my mind:

"The moving finger writes, and having writ, moved on..."

"...the conjunction of the mind; and opposition of the stars."

"The face of all the world has changed, I think..."

"Once upon a midnight dreary, as I pondered weak and weary..."

Sad lines, hopeless ones for the most part, but I feel neither sad nor hopeless. Just inevitable. Wistful. Swept along in a current. At one with the rain.