Listening

Soft rain will fall this morning.

Already, clouds are whitening all the air.

There is a hush on the trees,

the gentle ripple of their leaves too slight

for sound to happen yet.

Poised and waiting still

the earth is readying for sustenance.

Slowly, birds arouse

with flutterings and anxious little cheeps.

The leaves begin to rustle.

I too have a thirst.

Yet I too hesitate, and pause awhile.

To open to the boundless

cannot, surely, be a hasty thing,

must not be impatient?

Or can it – must it – be?

Perhaps, to slake that deep, that inner thirst,

I should be open-mouthed

and all my body taut with urgency

for the soft rain to fall.

I write this (way ahead of time!) to my own prompt for Poets United's Midweek Motif for Sept 16: "'Let your song be delicate' – or not." I give people a choice, but personally am attempting delicacy (in case you couldn't tell).