Dancin’ In The Rain
So what if it drizzles
And dribbles and drips?
I’ll splash in the garden,
I’ll dance on the roof.
Let it rain on my skin,
It can’t get in-
The promised rainstorms arrived in earnest late last week. What a welcome relief. Locals refer to these tropical storms as the Pineapple Express. They arrive from Hawaii, drenching us in warm rains, instead of the colder storms that push down from the north. You would never know it was February.
I reveled in the refreshing, cleansing rain and I’m sorry to see it go so soon.
The week ahead promises record-breaking heat in its place. I find it disorienting adjusting to this new normal.
Poetry is Dead
[The opinions that follow are not necessarily those of the blogger, nor do they reflect the opinion of our funder.] Funder? Oh I crack myself up.
On the drive home yesterday, my youngest son mentioned his school assignment: find and memorize a poem for a poetry slam. Both he and his older brother think that poetry is dead. “No one writes Greek poetry any more, Mom.”
I happen to like poetry. I defended my opinions and pointed out that the songs they love are poetry set to music. They weren’t convinced. The conversation ended when we got out of the car. Clearly I was outnumbered. But today when I rediscovered Silverstein’s poem the memories flooded back. My boys may have forgotten all those years we snuggled with a good book (including poetry), but I know that all that early reading laid a foundation deep within their brains. I read to those boys every night, many an afternoon, in book stores and in libraries. The backseat of the car always had a stash of books and I kept tiny books in my purse.
Poetry isn’t dead. It’s merely on an extended holiday, along with the rain. In the interim, I’ll drum my fingers to the rhythm of “it’s raining, it’s pouring, the old man is snoring.” Across the room, my son’s Beats™ go on.