Water

Everything on the earth bristled, the bramble
pricked and the green thread
nibbled away, the petal fell, falling
until the only flower was the falling itself.
Water is another matter,
has no direction but its own bright grace,
runs through all imaginable colors,
takes limpid lessons
from stone,
and in those functionings plays out
the unrealized ambitions of the foam.

-Pablo Neruda

There's been plenty of water from the sky the past few days. The sun is out now, though, so we're going in search of some other water. Will be back in a day or two.

Lots of rain the past couple days. That's okay; we kind of need it. This year's April has been kind of a dry one.

As I sit up here in my little garret, can hear the drops pattering on the skylight windows. It's a very comforting sound, this. Reminds me that I'm safe and secure; brings me back to a time when I was little and everything was okay. It will be easy to sleep tonight wrapped in such comforting feelings and surrounded by such soothing sounds.

Rain

As the falling rain
trickles among the stones
memories come bubbling out.
It's as if the rain
had pierced my temples.
Streaming
streaming chaotically
come memories:
the reedy voice
of the servant
telling me tales
of ghosts.
They sat beside me
the ghosts
and the bed creaked
that purple-dark afternoon
when I learned you were leaving forever,
a gleaming pebble
from constant rubbing
becomes a comet.
Rain is falling
falling
and memories keep flooding by
they show me a senseless
world
a voracious
world--abyss
ambush
whirlwind
spur
but I keep loving it
because I do
because of my five senses
because of my amazement
because every morning,
because forever, I have loved it
without knowing why.

- Claribel Alegría
Translated by Margaret S. Peden