Rainbow linings
Rain, rain, rain, rain, rain.
Guy Gavriel Kay has been known to quip that he wrote his Fionavar Tapestry just to publish that sentence and live to tell the tale. I may be more than a few threads short of tapestry - not to mention a few thousand words and a stroke of genius - but two day's worth of steady showers dared me to risk the derision of the blogosphere all the same: rain, rain, rain, rain, rain.
It was a good drencher, not a torrent headed straight for the gutter but a constant patter seeping slow into welcoming earth; the sort that brings forth seemingly immediate fruit in terms of grass and leaves and flowers. And that is the glory of a late May rain: each droplet's call brings an answering bloom, flowering April's leafy youth in a riot of colour.
Bright blossoms peaked out through the caragana's foliage, glimmers of the sunlight masked by overcast mystically present in the bushes. Lilacs buds clustered like so many miniature grapes, far more vivid than the paleness that still lay locked within. Flowering trees shunned the subtlety of shrubs, their greenery lost behind branch-long bursts of white, rose, and fuchsia. And down in the puddles sprang the labours of May-Long gardeners, cheery bedding plants joined hearty perennials drinking in the life-giving patter from above.
I've always found fault with the claim that each cloud bears a silver lining. I've seen my share of celestial shades - from brilliant white through dove grey to the foreboding charcoal of thunderheads - and deduced that clouds lack the luster to shine like any metal. And yet, by that second sopping day, I'd realized that a dark cloud cover can make for a fabulous foil; the gloomy skies lent vibrancy to the new-come hues below them. Heavy-laden with rain, the heavens brushed the tree tops, and so gained a rainbow lining from the bounty in their branches.
And I, umbrella in hand, drank in the sight and gave thanks for the gift of somber skies, for the flowers they framed, and for the rain.
Rain, rain, rain, rain, rain.
Guy Gavriel Kay has been known to quip that he wrote his Fionavar Tapestry just to publish that sentence and live to tell the tale. I may be more than a few threads short of tapestry - not to mention a few thousand words and a stroke of genius - but two day's worth of steady showers dared me to risk the derision of the blogosphere all the same: rain, rain, rain, rain, rain.
It was a good drencher, not a torrent headed straight for the gutter but a constant patter seeping slow into welcoming earth; the sort that brings forth seemingly immediate fruit in terms of grass and leaves and flowers. And that is the glory of a late May rain: each droplet's call brings an answering bloom, flowering April's leafy youth in a riot of colour.
Bright blossoms peaked out through the caragana's foliage, glimmers of the sunlight masked by overcast mystically present in the bushes. Lilacs buds clustered like so many miniature grapes, far more vivid than the paleness that still lay locked within. Flowering trees shunned the subtlety of shrubs, their greenery lost behind branch-long bursts of white, rose, and fuchsia. And down in the puddles sprang the labours of May-Long gardeners, cheery bedding plants joined hearty perennials drinking in the life-giving patter from above.
I've always found fault with the claim that each cloud bears a silver lining. I've seen my share of celestial shades - from brilliant white through dove grey to the foreboding charcoal of thunderheads - and deduced that clouds lack the luster to shine like any metal. And yet, by that second sopping day, I'd realized that a dark cloud cover can make for a fabulous foil; the gloomy skies lent vibrancy to the new-come hues below them. Heavy-laden with rain, the heavens brushed the tree tops, and so gained a rainbow lining from the bounty in their branches.
And I, umbrella in hand, drank in the sight and gave thanks for the gift of somber skies, for the flowers they framed, and for the rain.
Rain, rain, rain, rain, rain.
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