It’s peaceful out
And gentle wind
Whispers love into my soul
It’s quiet here
And rest I’ve found
Your sunshine careful in its glow
And standing here
I look around
I see my raindrops falling down
As mist rises up
To meet the rays
And lend its nurturing spirit there
So flowers bloom
And buds break forth
In graceful beauty all around
While clouds appear
And lend their shade
From overwhelming bursts of joy
And in this space
Of growth and peace
I stepped outside,
Felt the slap of winter’s
Icy breath
And stood beneath
The rain-soaked pines
Drops dripped
I looked up, fists clenched
And felt a wet ceiling above
A great ice wall betwixt me
And the sky
Unleashing and spitting upon me
Drops dripped
The Lord had taken my joy
I said
Had swept my feet from under
Like a scythe at harvest
My precious things in their
Full bloom,
Their life and blood on the earth
Drops dripped
Williamsburg had observed visitors from around America with different personalities, stories, and lifestyles. To her, the large, homeschooled family was simply another group of eager sightseers. To my family and me, though, Williamsburg was new territory with a plethora of early American history. The town, built to resemble colonial Williamsburg, fascinated and excited my family. Little did we know how temperamental the East Coast weather was—and how swiftly it could reverse.
It was a gray, rainy Wednesday morning when Amanda came to my apartment to help make sure I was ready to go—she being a seasoned traveler, and me having never been out of the country before. I had been up for hours already, unable to sleep, and had packed and re-packed my backpack at least half a dozen times. I’m one of those people who needs very little in reality and yet, when faced with the prospect of travel, feels compelled to pack everything I own, just in case; not an ideal compulsion to have when you’re about to embark on a backpacks-only trip.
Rain never falls upon this land.
The heat is strong, the shrubs are dry,
And dust flies loosely all around,
Under a shimmering, glaring sky.
My feet are scorched by frying sand;
My head is burned by angry rays;
I wend upon this flaming ground,
And watch the hours turn into days.
At night it cools, yet no relief
Will comfort in my turning sleep;
The air oppressively berates;
My rest is neither sound nor deep.
January:
Snow has fallen. It sparkles in the sunlight, gleaming like diamonds. It hides the yellow-brown grass and the dry ground, creating a clean, white sheet, covering the old, awaiting the new. A perfect greeting to the New Year.
School will start soon; work will return; but everything seems fresh and ready. Last year’s trials and hardships are past. This year lies before us, and we must begin anew.
February:
Ileuad pulled her mud stained cloak tighter around herself, trying not to wake Ewen. She shuddered in the cold, and cast a glance over to the other side of the cave. There Adaon lay, never to rise again. He was shrouded in his dark cloak in the very farthest corner of the cave.
Lightning flashes across the sky,
Thunder rumbles a lullaby;
Soft and deep, very sweet and low,
Wind hums along, breathy and slow.
Tree branches gently dip and sway;
Waltzing the moonlit night away.
Raindrops kissing the cool night air,
Stars twinkling with light-beams fair.
Rustic theatre sets the scene
For a concert and play serene.
Handiwork of a mighty Lord:
A musical you can afford.
Rain that patters not the roof,
Rain that lulls me, soothes me, too
Rain that sings a lullaby,
Rain that makes me want to cry.
Rain that makes me want to sing,
Rain finds joy in everything.
Rain that is goodly for the earth,
Rain that is moody, or full of mirth.
Rain that God gives us in His love;
Showers of blessings from above.
His breaths are copper leaves ripped from a cedar.
She hears the gale in his chest rattle the blinds.
Before the bed can roll over to smother them,
She heaves it off, hearing the storm slam into the window.
She tastes the salt in the downpour, feels
wetness speckle the backs of her hands.
“Abraham’s tree has its foot in the water”—
at this staticky song of the weather report,
she laces her boots with typha, lifts him
in one thin arm, and cradles him over miles of
sharp puddles. They slice at her soles, but she splashes