THE POETRY OF LIFE
I rose early this morning to take my park walk, wanting to be home in time to meet with my gardener. At that hour, I had the place to myself and sauntered along, admiring the rain that had begun to fall and the pearls it deposited on the dusty leaves of the Rhododendrons. I made no effort to raise the hood of my parka. The drops tapping on my cheeks dried the moment I became aware of them. Delicate as they were, they managed to draw my attention to the stillness of the hour and to the light breaking at intervals through the clouds.
Thinking of clouds and rain, I recalled my lunch with a friend the previous day. It was a happy conversation. His family had survived an emotional storm that might have blown them apart. “I think we’re stronger now,” my friend said as he stirred his coffee. “We’re no longer innocent. But we’ve faced the worst and know we can survive.”
I thought about this family that had braved a tempest and of the mist upon my face. The words of a poem came to me as if to speak of both:
“A slight rain comes bathed in dawn light.
I hear it among tree top leaves before mist
Arrives. Soon it sprinkles the soil and,
Windblown, it follows clouds away. Deepened.” (Tu Fu, 701-762)