I’m cutting daisies in this rain falling over the quiet morning like Sunday Grace.
I’m holding utterly still breathing the scent of water and flowers
The cups of the small roses reaching up
Every leaf trembling
*Its been a month since rain fell here. The ground is hard packed and parched. Even the trees are beginning to die. This little shower won’t save the corn fields or the beans but it is a gift and balm to our thirsty souls.