It’s been raining. All day. Yesterday. Days.
No one is at the gardens. In them.
I spray the lock.
I spray the handle.
I wonder: where will it wash to?
All the Lysol. All the alcohol.
The bleach and anti-
“Into the streams,” comes the answer.
From where? From whom?
From here.
A crown of onions, for which I was sent, unearthed.
A cascade of sky water rivulets with.each.thumb.press.
Adding fingers in their chill to the list of aches I feel from the world.
As I return home to the warmth awaiting, kindled long ago, preciously tended with moments stolen and savored as we exhale on.
plumdirt 
Wet and sloppy, but good for staying indoors. Exhale on…
Same to you. And when you go back out, let me know if it also seems to your nose as though city nature smells more like country nature these days.
Yes! I thought I was imagining the different smells in the world. I’m near to 183 and it’s much quieter and less with the exhaust! Some consolations, I suppose.
I’ll take it. As someone said, “It’s like Mother Earth has said, ‘Go to your room and think about what you’ve done while I clean up your mess.’
We had rain Friday night and Saturday, too, and it was wonderful. Slow, and soaking. There’s more coming, they say, and the plants will be happy.
Indeed they will. And don’t they deserve to be.
Beautifully put. Darkly so, but apt. Moving too.
The times have a beauty mixed into the darkness with the light shining dappled through.
Yes.
And I like your last phrase. It brings back Hopkins, a long-time favorite; e.g. “dapple-dawn-drawn falcon”, “dappled with dew”; then there’s the popular one that begins “Glory be to God for dappled things” and goes on to describe them with joy