Look To The Skies

The rain is falling; the woman’s body can sense moisture in the air.  Once a child, the woman would think it odd when her grandmother would comment, I can feel the weather in my bones.  Now she knows this is factual.  Scientists state that creatures, including birds, can sense a storm, as it brews, before it strikes.  True, the woman believes. Pay attention to the birds, Grace.  Look to the skies.

The sky is grey, dove grey. Gossamer threads taut, white fibres stretched through the sky, much like a blanket, the shades subtly mingled and woven. A cozy blanket to comfort the earth.

Red boots on Saturday
Red boots on Saturday (Photo credit: huppypie)

The woman fans the paint chips, November Skies, catches her eye. When it comes to colour, Nature, the masterful painter, always gets it right. Look to the skies. 

This is a red boot day, a functional rain boot day.  The woman senses the boots whispering through the floors of the old house, Come, let’s play.  Once there was a time when new rain boots made the woman smile, peering through the living room window, waiting for rain.  Anticipating the child’s thrill, dipping a foot into water. The puddles to splash!  Look to the skies. 

The rain tumbles down.  The woman wonders, Does the sky shed tears? Perhaps, the universe, heart-broken and melancholy, sobs, when a light goes out on the earth below.  A sorrowful cleanse of sorts, a reminder of loss and despair. A reminder of another’s love, now washed away. Lost to memory, patiently waiting, for the right time for one to open the box.  Open it.  Let the sunlight’s brilliance remind us of all that is beautiful in life, remembering, the rain will pass.  Look to the skies.

Rainy Day

This morning, I sit in silence, listening to the rain as its steady patter hits the roof.  I imagine the soft water droplets exploding after their harsh landing, scattering into the air and gutters. Free falling.  The coffee is black, strong and hot, just the way that I like it.  The house is still, darkened by the smoke grey clouds blanketing the sky.  Only the light cast from the lamp illuminates the desk where I sit, musing on the morning.  I realize how much I enjoy these quiet, melancholy mornings.

To be honest, I love grey, wet mornings.  There is something beautiful about a universe that lets her world have a good cry of tears, every once in a while. It’s cathartic, as if the universe is saying, Just let go, it is what it is, let it be.  A lovely cleansing of sorts, preparing us for the eventual return of sunshine and clear skies. For when it happens we will be ready to appreciate the bright changes all the more.  Let some light into the darkness.

This is a baking morning.  Quiet, grey, wet mornings  demand an audience; they want to be treated as special guests.  Turn on the oven, the warmth from within fills the kitchen.  Carefully select, mix and stir the ingredients. Savor the cinnamon and vanilla.  Put the darling into the oven.  Blanket it in warmth for a spell.  Delicious goodness awaits.  A simple action that sustains.  Blissful, unhurried moments on a rainy day morning.