Jules Henri Poincare, a French mathematician, theoretical physicist, engineer, and philosopher of science, is noted to have said, "Ideas rose in the clouds; I felt them collide until pairs interlocked, so to speak, making a stable combination." I hear you, sir, as it is to with me.
I used to live in a semi-arid region where it rarely rained between May and November. It was a vapid and dusty existence for this poet who literally feeds on inclement weather. So much so that I was compelled to write my poem, Pluviophile, to express my earnest yearning for the rain.
At long last, unforeseen circumstances conspired together which compelled my family and I to move. In answer to my unspoken prayers we now reside where clouds loom large, overcast skies abound, and where it rains more often than not … and I find myself in a poet’s paradise.
I say “unspoken” because I didn’t realize that I needed this, exactly this, until we got here. We also didn’t know that we would require an all terrain vehicle when we purchased it before leaving those evenly paved city streets behind. But here we are, blessed beyond blessed.
When my husband and I retired we immediately knew that we could no longer afford our beautiful, upscale apartment, or being surrounded by every possible convenience. What could have been a tragic experience became an adventure as we felt ourselves being nudged along.
There is much to be said with going with the flow, which is also what I do when I’m writing. As with Henri Poincare, I have the luxury of allowing thoughts, images, and ideas to flit and swoop loosely under my control as they aviate in the direction of the stormy sky beyond my windows.
And so I present to you my rather desperate longings of not so long ago:
Pluviophile
I pull the curtains back
From windows clear and wide
In earnest, hopeful stance
To search the open sky
For merest wisp of cloud
In arcing ever blue
Until I burst aloud,
”The rain is long past due!”
Where is that swollen scent
When seabirds fill the air
And moisture not yet spent
Is lurking everywhere.
Why do they stay away,
This season’s will defy?
Oh how I miss those days
When all the sky would cry.
Image: Janice T
I used to live in a semi-arid region where it rarely rained between May and November. It was a vapid and dusty existence for this poet who literally feeds on inclement weather. So much so that I was compelled to write my poem, Pluviophile, to express my earnest yearning for the rain.
At long last, unforeseen circumstances conspired together which compelled my family and I to move. In answer to my unspoken prayers we now reside where clouds loom large, overcast skies abound, and where it rains more often than not … and I find myself in a poet’s paradise.
I say “unspoken” because I didn’t realize that I needed this, exactly this, until we got here. We also didn’t know that we would require an all terrain vehicle when we purchased it before leaving those evenly paved city streets behind. But here we are, blessed beyond blessed.
When my husband and I retired we immediately knew that we could no longer afford our beautiful, upscale apartment, or being surrounded by every possible convenience. What could have been a tragic experience became an adventure as we felt ourselves being nudged along.
There is much to be said with going with the flow, which is also what I do when I’m writing. As with Henri Poincare, I have the luxury of allowing thoughts, images, and ideas to flit and swoop loosely under my control as they aviate in the direction of the stormy sky beyond my windows.
And so I present to you my rather desperate longings of not so long ago:
Pluviophile
I pull the curtains back
From windows clear and wide
In earnest, hopeful stance
To search the open sky
For merest wisp of cloud
In arcing ever blue
Until I burst aloud,
”The rain is long past due!”
Where is that swollen scent
When seabirds fill the air
And moisture not yet spent
Is lurking everywhere.
Why do they stay away,
This season’s will defy?
Oh how I miss those days
When all the sky would cry.
Image: Janice T
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