Two Hundred

Two hundred times I have sat here, looking out my window, at green grass or oranging leaves, at snow dancing against the window, the rain making invisible smattering sounds out on the road. Two hundred times I have told you about my walks, the things we have seen and the steps we have taken, and always my thought about both. Two hundred times I have shared the beauty of my dog and the calm that settles over me, like a church calm or a lake calm, when I am with him. Two hundred times you have laced up your shoes and joined us, pulling your scarf tight around yourself, or reaching deep into your mittens. Two hundred thank yous for all the times you came along.

Walks are always better with someone else.

Last night
the rain
spoke to me
slowly, saying,
what joy
to come falling
out of the brisk cloud,
to be happy again
in a new way
on the earth!
That’s what it said
as it dropped,
smelling of iron,
and vanished
like a dream of the ocean
into the branches
and the grass below.
Then it was over.
The sky cleared.
I was standing
under a tree.
The tree was a tree
with happy leaves,
and I was myself,
and there were stars in the sky
that were also themselves
at the moment
at which moment
my right hand
was holding my left hand
which was holding the tree
which was filled with stars
and the soft rain –
imagine! imagine!
the long and wondrous journeys
still to be ours.
(Last Night the Rain Spoke to Me, Mary Oliver)