10 September 2013

Saturation // Celebration

Here on the North Sea, rainy season has arrived with an umbrella-warping zeal that's hard not to be dazzled by. Out walking the dogs after dinner tonight, I exchanged nods of solidarity with the other pedestrians and cyclists, all of us momentarily united in our startled sogginess. One girl had a mouthful of laughter, audible over the sheets of water hitting the tops of parked cars. 

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

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
with gratitude.

If it's raining where you are, friends, rejoice.