This past Saturday was what the Irish affectionately call a “soft day,” one in which the rain arrives early in the form of a gentle mist, and remains longer than expected, soaking the landscape.
On days like this, it’s easy for us to make excuses not to do a particular chore, pull those weeds, organize that recycling. The softness somehow quenches the guilt.
On quiet days like this, it’s nice to be reminded that simple happiness is never having to leave your front porch to discover the mysteries of the universe unfolding in a single flower. Or to recall, unexpectedly, the last two stanzas of a favorite love poem by
E. E. Cummings…
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands