and I worry I won’t find inspiration.
Too tired to dig down deep
and extract some delightful gem
from the depths of my subconscious…
but then I sit, and listen.
I hear the rain
drumming on the skylight in the hall.
I can picture millions of tiny drops
falling on every skylight in this neighborhood,
tapping on all the windows, the roofs.
Hundreds of leaves on hundreds of trees
shaking gently as each drop meets
its final destination.
And the blades of grass, how do they feel?
And the birds?
The swings hanging in the dark playground–
do they wonder when they’ll move again
to a swinger’s delight?
There are fox and deer around here–
where are they in this rain?
Do they love the sound of its falling as I do?
How big is the cloud loosing all these drops
on the world?
Does it stretch a mile across the sky?
Ah, I remember now.
Inspiration isn’t an answer.
It is a question.