A Gentle Rain The morning’s rain, like love, does not insist on its own way— patiently, kindly, permeates itself down among roots of daisy and of oak where it does the most good. A mystery: something that ends well. We never get to see the intimate congress of rain with root in chambers underground, yet from childhood I recall the preacher in his long black robe, halving a loaf by hand, raising a cup— how he spoke of outward, visible signs of inward, invisible grace. Gentlest of rains settles in only as soil allows. It is not arrogant or rude. It will reach the roots of life when it reaches them.
Russell Rowland writes from New Hampshire’s Lakes Region, where he has judged high-school Poetry Out Loud competitions. His work appears in Except for Love: New England Poets Inspired by Donald Hall (Encircle Publications), and Covid Spring, Vol. 2 (Hobblebush Books). His latest poetry book, Magnificat, is available from Encircle Publications.
Amethyst Review 