Tuesday, December 2, 2014

The Gentle Rain



















The weeks have passed with a certainty that cements me to the ground, pulling all things forward with them.  Our heat went out on thanksgiving day and I scurried around our dark kitchen in the cold, baking bread and braiding the loaves together, laced with chocolate chips and brown sugar.  We spend our days locked up inside the bedroom, the only room with heat, and hung twinkle lights across the top of the bed that dance across our cheeks when we lay down at night.  Every day is like a little sugar plum, sweet and unfolded with great delight and anticipation (after all, it is December).  I learned to knit and find great comfort in the making of warm things.  I have found that there are few greater joys than a cup of honey lemon tea and a pile of oatmeal colored wool.  'Tis the season for Diana Krall and James Blake.  Lindisfarne I & II.  Gentle rain.  These are what I sing almost silently to Rosalita while we are rocking in the old blue chair.

Come, little one/
You have me in the world/
And our love will be sweet/
Very sad, very sweet/
Like the gentle rain/

Monday, September 8, 2014