164. A Drop of Rain

have you ever let a poem tell you what to do?

Dear reader,

I almost stayed in. It is so much easier to see the rain from the other side of the window. But instead I stepped out, because of something a poem said. In today’s sneakyart drop, I let a poem tell me what to do.

Past drops include [152] [80] [64] and of course [86].

In the grey, early morning, rainwater trickled down the window in front of my desk. Each drop left a trail of evidence as if cutting a path in the glass. After a few inches, it ran out of itself and stopped. And waited. Soon a fresh drop of water arrived by the marked path, and together they resumed the downward journey.

Was it the same drop as before? Were they together a new drop? I followed it/them all the way down until it/they became one again, with the puddle on my ledge.

Early mornings are a good time to be wistful at the window.

***

I gazed out of the window wistfully -
at the enormous grey sky with roiling clouds,
the dark trees swaying in angry winds,
white streaks of rainwater at an acute angle.

A patch of yellow flickered
on the dark canvas.
another early riser
across the street.

***

I guess I was looking for something to give me a push. I found it on page 4 of the table of contents of a recently gifted book of poems (by Louise Glück).

The title of the poem was “Rainy Morning”. Before turning to the page, I promised I would do whatever it said.

Dear reader, if these words have found you on a rainy morning, look out of the window now and make the same promise before proceeding.

***

So I walked the long way to the neighbourhood cafe. I watched the trees shake in the wind. I watched raindrops complete airborne journeys of thousands of miles against the sidewalk and asphalt and bus shelter, against leaves and tree trunks and yellow grass, on the front lawns of ground-floor apartments and the construction site across the street from us. They drummed against my umbrella, and I was drowned in their sound.

Now, it is the turn of the grateful earth to drink up the water. It will follow ancient paths deep into the soil. If there were a way to hear such things, you would hear it percolating - drop by drop - on the way to vast subterranean aquifers.

“rainy day” | buy this print

***

Carpe diem, cried Mr. Keating. But now I find it more beautiful to say -

“You should show people more of yourself;
show them your clandestine passion for red meat.”

Dear reader, have you ever let a poem tell you what to do?

In case you missed it -

🎙 Show notes, links and book recommendations, from my enlightening conversation with author/artist Amy Stewart.

✍🏼 Man, spotted posing with balloons reluctantly.

👨🏻‍🎨 The best ideas and lessons from my people drawing workshop at Pike Place Market in Seattle.