Rain and Love Poetry

Rainy spring days turn me into a pile of mush. Maybe it’s  the fact that the inch thick layer of pollen that coated everything is finally being washed away.

There’s just something about the rain. The white noise drowns out everything else, and the way the world looks after the rain…it’s just stunning. Especially in the spring. Everything’s colors pop out, the grass comes in lush, and fungi pop up everywhere. The tree closest to my window was covered in white blossoms a few weeks ago, and is now mostly lemon green. The blueberry bushes look like they’ve grown pink popcorn, and the bright, freckled trumpets of azalea have emerged. The jessamine has taken over the fence; a bird has built another nest there. The oak has awakened from his winter sleep, and the banana tree that my father cut down has risen from the ashes. The rain makes everything look like you’re seeing it on an HD TV. The contrast and saturation have been turned up.

Everything is changing! There is decay and growth beneath my feet. My tiny windowsill herb garden in sprouting: chives, basil, dill, and parsley. The weather switches back and forth, hot to cold, sunny to rainy. I love seeing the earth transform around me.

Today I snatched up a volume of love poetry from the discarded pile at the library. The cover shows a man with wings moving in on a mostly naked woman. She stares into the distance, unaffected by his advances.

The first poem I found in it that I loved was “To Helen” by Edgar Allen Poe.

“Helen, thy beauty is to me
   Like those Nicéan barks of yore,
That gently, o’er a perfumed sea,
   The weary, way-worn wanderer bore
   To his own native shore.
On desperate seas long wont to roam,
   Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
   To the glory that was Greece,
   And the grandeur that was Rome.
Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche
   How statue-like I see thee stand,
The agate lamp within thy hand!
   Ah, Psyche, from the regions which
   Are Holy-Land!”

Every English teacher I’ve ever had ruined poetry for me. But sometimes, it really hits me.


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