I've discovered that the best antidote to weather-induced cabin fever is to put on a raincoat and embrace the hell out of it. After two days of bone-drenching bicycle rides, I'm feeling surprisingly giddy. There's something cathartic about coming in from the rain, the transition from wet to dry, the felonious thrill of wet hair dripping on a clean floor.
As an ode to the skies' grand re-opening, I'll leave you with this poem, first published in the 2011 issue of Alehouse Journal.
If it's raining where you are, friends, rejoice.
Meditations on a spring storm
by Jess Walter
Lightning hits the house
across the street with a murderous
crack, and all I want is to lie in the center
of the driveway, face and palms turned
upward towards the violence. The sky growls
like a starving dog, and it’s you I think of -
collected, quiet-eyed, standing still
in an empty forest.
I discuss proximity with myself, concoct
equations, as the storm above rumbles on.
The distance between my crooked
toes (point A) and your perfectly
long arms (point B) is the square root
of last night when the rain
and your eyes fell on my bare
neck as I walked through the heavy
doors, an offering from the wet
In the morning, the sun bites through
a gray ceiling of cloud until the black streets
steam and the newly green leaves
of grass bow elegantly, glossy