Isn’t it so that the storm

brings the brightest light?

And what joy, there is, in

soaring, aloft, in the stormbound.

This morning, rain fell and fell, and

the spattering ripples

in the water, the metal’d roof,

and mist hung over the water, the

long reaches that there are

down there, the distant running.

And even in these silences,

there is supreme beauty,

and joy — in that finding.

Some work, should all

ways be followed by

play. But, perhaps,

never in that order.

Loving you —

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