# of divers

Friday, November 22, 2013

November Rain

Early morning, coastal fog, and grey skies above, the onset of an early San Diego winter. This uncharacteristic weather tends to sneak upon us like a feline cat in the gloss of night despite our typically warmer climate.

 photo credit: tiana-marie-arnoco.tumblr.com

It's enough to swing the pendulum into cheerlessness.

I am quite fond of gloomy days however, and all that accompanies them. The steaming cups of delightful tea, the afternoons filled with sad piano songs that writhe with passion, the drizzle of rain dancing atop the lapping waves before they break onto the shore.

photo credit: cinderellaws.tumblr.com

I welcome the rain as it gives me good excuse to tuck away into a bookstore and nose through the aisles to catch up on my bookjunkie-based freeloading. This of course, always concludes with me slapping down the plastic and depleting a significant amount of funds from my bank account.

For the record, I am not to be trusted in a bookstore with a credit card.

I've a fine umbrella which permits me to spend much time outside to enjoy the little nuances of the rare Southern Californian rainy day, the splish-splash of cars slowly proceeding through puddles (this is California after all, and we haven't the slightest as to how to behave while driving in the rain), and the clickety-clack of high-heeled women taking to the sidewalks that seethe with aromas of wet asphalt.


I do enjoy the warm feeling that musters deep within me on these brooding sort of grey days. I also happen to keep a lovely poem up my sleeve for such occasions. There's really nothing like the encouragement one receives from reading a nice poem, and November is a perfect time of year for reading poetry. This one happens to be wonderfully dreary.

The Rainy Day
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall
And the day is dark and dreary

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart, and cease repining,
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining,
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall
Some days must be dark and dreary.

 photo credit: jurasepromessas.tumblr.com

Perhaps somewhere there is a creature robed in a black, sashy sort of gown taking command of the skies. I do hope he or she has a moment or two for a whisk into a pile of blankets to rest and catch up on some poetry.

Happy gray day

x
        

1 comment:

Sash Walker said...

Oh, how I do love this post! Thank you for sharing! Your words fall like raindrops making a tinkle tankle jingle ringle song of their own.
Smooches,
Sash

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