Eighty-seven

“Today is the first of August. It is hot, steamy and wet. It is raining. I am tempted to write a poem. But I remember what it said on one rejection slip: ‘After a heavy rainfall, poems titled ‘Rain’ pour in from across the nation.’ Sylvia Plath

It’s not August, and it’s not hot or steamy. It’s cold, but not cold to snow. Instead, we have drenching December rains in the Upper Mississippi Delta. In my view, the worst of all possible combinations, temps in the 40’s to 50’s and rain. Now, if I lived in the desert, I would welcome any and all rains, but I live in a low lying land with an abundance of water. Enough already!

I’d prefer colder temps and six-inches of snow, but will take what Ma Nature gives me. But if it’s going to be rain, I’d prefer to be in Paris. C’est bon. Au revoir.

1 thought on “Eighty-seven

  1. Michael Lewis

    UGH! Cold rain is the worst. I’ll take 30 below any day!

    Same kind of weather here on the Left Coast, winter rains, 40º overnight, 50º to 60º during the day. Sometimes rains for a week steady. Bad weather for horses, if I had any.

    I don’t do poetry. I find drippy solace in Satie and Vivaldi, a hot cup of coffee and a good novel by a favored anarchist, beside the wood stove toasty with fragrant eucalyptus and coast oak.

    Stay warm and Dry, Pard, the sun will return.

    Like

    Reply

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