Leaves are like carillon bells,
played by healing summer rain, a wild and joyful rhythm on thousands and thousands of tiny green bells.
Bells, leaves, yes.
And blades of grass.
There are brown spots of grass, one where a structure overshadowed it for too long, and two, parched and crackling, whose origins I cannot figure out. What I know is that the hungry roots call to the rain as the overshadowed blades call to the sun on other days.
If this were a metaphor, I might have insight about what the rain is and how to heal the desert-dry spots.
But it’s not. I am simply standing in the rain, face upturned.
I believe in rain. It seems like a nice thing to believe in.