When I was a kid I had an instinct, that when it’s raining out, nothing can be done. 
Nothing decided, nothing finally accomplished. 
Everything is on hold under the cozy, closer ceiling of the sky. 

 

Out my morning window, there is constant motion, shushing and plopping a curtain around my bed.  I wake into a rainstorm and the softness of no-achieving opens a flow inside me.  Poems fall out, unplanned.  Ideas, new, useful perceptions, seem to have time to find their way to the page.  While outside, further away, traffic slows, appointments are cancelled.  The earth drinks, the leaves brighten, colored boots slap into puddles. 

 

The innocence of knowing that there are greater forces at work than our collective personal plans, so obviously calling the shots…and, that they have not done with that job…gives me permission to stop showing externally.  Instead, an internal flow burbles into contented activity.