Rain comes to L.A. this year in the early fall;
Indian summer with cool nights and a warm day
punctuated with the sound of rain drops falling
from the eaves of the roof, softly at first,
then louder, then softly again.
My daughter, in the middle of her first college mid-terms,
says it’s pouring where she is, a four hour drive north.
The stress has made her cranky. She doesn't like it,
doesn't like the rain, doesn't like the tests,
doesn't like anything at the moment.
The rain will change, so will she.
I’ve never farmed a day in my life, never known a crop.
My father grew up farming. He could grow anything,
once taught that to me. I’ve long since forgotten.
I’ve no green thumb left.
I sit listening to the rain, loving its sound
and the cool breeze on a warm autumn day that comes with it.
I worry about crops I’ve never grown, and the fish.
I know them.
© James Webb, 2009
A Man in Search of a Verb
2 weeks ago