the pitter-patter of long-awaited raindrops.
a slow, soft murmuring sort of morning; everything moving slowly.
snuggled in my warm bed with sheets desperately needing to be washed.
the scent of us, our family, wafts over me, making me almost weepy (like the rain).
darkness hovers outside, my lazy limbs linger in the pillowy softness, reluctant to rise and greet the day.
Every bone in my body rebels as I drift downstairs. Then I stand quietly, and through the window I watch drops of rain weighing down the daylilies.
Behind me, the girls are curled into the couch, cocoon-like. Snippets of Sponge Bob scatter through the room, interrupting my reverie.
I’m called back by the reflection of my round belly in the window pane.
So much depends…
upon this miracle baby.
She will love the rain, a gift I can open and present to her slowly–as I was never able to do with my babies before.
We will have the luxury of hushed, quiet moments together. Of taking our time together, not rushing.
And I will not feel guilty; my twins are fine despite having blurred, hurried introductions to rain, flowers, ladybugs, the majesty of trees, and a myriad of other glorious things.
Here I stand, rubbing my belly: anxiously awaiting the day when I will hold a tiny pink bundle in my arms and be able to give her gifts, the very same gifts that I love. Gifts of nature, of the earth.
The rain on the window pane.
This week’s prompt: the poem below by William Carlos Williams. “The Red Wheelbarrow” has long held an air of mystery and intrigue for me. It tells a complex tale with a lot hiding just below the surface. Take any word, image, or feeling evoked from “The Red Wheelbarrow” and turn it into your masterpiece. Let’s do things short and sweet: 300 or fewer words.
so much depends
a red wheel
glazed with rain
beside the white
chickens. –William Carlos Williams