Sequestered within the wooded walls of the cabin,
lake to right, woods to left and center and above.
Water is the theme of the day, in surround.
More sublime than the direct showiness of the lake,
toward which everything is aligned,
rain comes down in soft steadiness,
making its subtle statement,
at first subliminally, indeterminable.
and then with perceptable rhythm,
in conversation with the soul.
Drops with strength in numbers,
on their trajectory,
encountering the sheer of breezes and crosswinds and, finally,
the gauntlet of spruce boughs,
which threaten to undo their pre-ordained droplet identity,
the expected shape, with girth on bottom, tapering to thin on top.
An identity prescribed by the forces of gravity and liquidity,
Of nature’s serendipidity.
The sound of the rain is perfect in its balance of steady calming cadence,
shaded, where necessary, with patches of silence.
The speed is correct.
To determine the contribution of an individual droplet is, likely, doable.
But the audible stop-action, the deconstruction of beauty,
brought about by this exercise would subtract the fundamental ingredient,
the random orchestration of the storm that transcends deliberation,
and connects us with our primordial self.
A poem written on a rainy summer day in a cabin in the Adirondack Mountains of upstate New York.