Rain

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Myra Tate

The heavy winter rain

washes the street clean

after the leaf-blowers

have gone.

 

Still covered with oak, maple,

and other desiccated leaves

the short wintry grass

takes on their fading browns

and yellows.

 

I walk gingerly, knowing that

wet leaves are slippery

and a fall at my age would

be dangerous.  I am glad to

have made it safely inside.

 

The crepe-myrtle that

graces my office window

has shed its pink blossoms.

Now there are tiny sparkling

waterballs on the twigs, creating

one of nature’s Christmas trees.

 

It’s chilly in my house.

I have dressed for the cold

in a warm fuschia jacket

and heavy black trousers.

 

Noon has arrived minus the sun.

Hot tomato soup in a mug -

a grilled cheese sandwich –

an apple and a cup of fragrant tea.

 

Winter has its pleasures.