Waxing Poetic in April

The hour is early and I am tucked in bed listening to the rain hitting the roof in a soothing tap-dance symphony that is mismatched but yet perfect at the same time. Others have heard the Spring Peepers in the evening; I haven't yet but for me the rain is enough. With it comes a promise of new growth, of flowers, of green. 

April Rain

The April rain, the April rain,
Comes slanting down in fitful showers,
Then from the furrow shoots the grain,
And banks are fledged with nestling flowers;
And in grey shaw and woodland bowers
The cuckoo through the April rain
Calls once again.

The April sun, the April sun,
Glints through the rain in fitful splendour,
And in grey shaw and woodland dun
The little leaves spring forth and tender
Their infant hands, yet weak and slender,
For warmth towards the April sun,
One after one.

And between shower and shine hath birth
The rainbow's evanescent glory;
Heaven's light that breaks on mists of earth!
Frail symbol of our human story,
It flowers through showers where, looming hoary,
The rain-clouds flash with April mirth,
Like Life on earth. 

by Mathilde Blind

I never cared for poems much when I was younger. Too long. Too boring. Too confusing. Why not just say, "I like rain."? I just didn't get it. But now? I think I get it now. 

Love, Dianne

P.S. I think I am going back to sleep now, just because.