Drip. Drip. Drip. I stood at the foyer door looking out over the wave of ferns and lush green maples. The sound is what caught my attention first. A steady drip from the gutter onto the leaves of a large potted rose below. A rose waiting to be planted in one of the gardens down the hill. Yet here I was again, surrounded by gray skies and plump drops falling in an endless stream.
I have been patient. I have been hopeful. I have stood in knee high boots with hair plastered to my face and cold, damp, goose bump covered arms coveting a fleece blanket. (Or perhaps something steaming hot with an indulgent shot of Bailey’s). I have let the drops encircle me for a bit…doing their own rain dance of sorts as I tried to tuck at least one bed with seeds.
Yet here I stand as skies fade from pale pewter to charcoal, nose pressed hopefully to panes of leaded glass. My world has become a jungle of leaves and blades and petals, shades of green from a Crayola box morphing into an eye-catching scene from Van Gogh’s Irises, although absent is the sunny backdrop.
The rain has forced me to stop and contemplate a moment in time that otherwise would have been forgotten, if not nonexistent. A brief flicker of time spent enveloped in one’s own senses. Overpowered. Overcome. Overjoyed. Forever grateful.