Blessed Rain

It seems poets who write odes often take on subjects most would prefer to ignore, shun, or otherwise not celebrate, and lift them up to a place of honor. Take, for example, John Keats and his Ode on Melancholy and Ode on a Grecian Urn. Who thinks to celebrate sadness or to honor a thing that holds dead ashes? Apparently that’s what poets do. Really great ones, anyway.

And so, our very own Becka Choat takes on the weather, celebrating a blessing others might prefer would go away, come again some other day…

Image by Becka Choat
Image by Becka Choat

To the Rain

by Rebekah Choat

Oh, blessed Rain, how good of you to come this day,
when I could not bear much brightness.

You wrap your soft, grey shawl around me, holding me close,
comforting me with low, wordless murmurings.
You tenderly bathe my face, my sore and weary body, my aching heart.
You set me in a gentle place to rest.
You linger to water the dry, cracked ground of my garden,
sending quiet strength to seeds sleeping deep.

Faint strains of your song of spring come to me
as you fade out of hearing.

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