begins with barely-get-wet rain
that whispers in trees and kisses
your skin, subdues the raucous
morning chorus.

A morning of water that ticks on leaf,
and leaf shakes off. Glint of pond in distance. 
Rain dimples its surface,
sends turtles deep to sleep.

The mass bell hasn’t rung. I am awake
in the sleeping house. I turn from reading
news to poetry, from poetry to window
gazing, eyes and ears unfocused.

The sound of falling water turns off
my brain. My body goes soft. The need
to do rattles the downspout. Worries
wash into the rain barrel. Later,

they will feed the flowers. Right now,
there is only this: green shimmer of grass.
Purple hearts of redbud. Silver sky.
Inhale. Exhale. Sip tea. Repeat.