#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream

And who art thou? said I to the soft-falling shower,

Which, strange to tell, gave me an answer, as here translated:

I am the Poem of Earth, said the voice of the rain,

Eternal I rise impalpable out of the land and the bottomless sea,

Upward to heaven, whence, vaguely form'd, altogether changed,
and yet the same,

I descend to lave the drouths, atomies, dust-layers of the globe,

And all that in them without me were seeds only, latent, unborn;

And forever, by day and night, I give back life to my own

origin, and make pure and beautify it;. . .

~ Excerpt from “The Voice of the Rain,” Walt Whitman

I slept in a bit, gloom of rain, no sunrise, and the sound of voices on the balcony: Ron with Frank to fix the door. Loud, loud, wonderful, helpful, enthusiastic Ron! Yes, the rain came down on this dark-sky day and there was very little light and much gloom on the river. I walked and got wet and didn’t mind, but the wetness made me weary, the low light made me weary, and errands made me weary but I accomplished them, and then there was that jolt of satisfaction: I have gotten things done that needed to be done, even in this cold rain. By 4:20, driving home from errands in the rain: blackness of night! But I accomplished the holiday card order too and the purchase of stamps and the ordering of gifts that must arrive on time. I am grateful for so many things today: Ron, and all the quick and artful fixing he does for Frank whenever Frank asks. I am grateful for rain: how it rises and falls, it takes and gives back.