RAIN BEFORE SEVEN Barbara Saunier
Rethink disappointment when you wake to the sound of rain. Sunny and dry may only be Hallmark working an angle. Instead, choose to practice your guitar— the acoustic—or a breathy alto sax. Sit by an open window where rain can sweet-talk your hands. Then brush the dog. Or write a letter. By hand. Choose a pen that draws across the page like rain draws down glass. In your letter describe the rain trilling in the gutters. Do the dishes. By hand. Let the cloth browse over the plate and mug. On the stove, nothing above a simmer—flame just to cradle a pot you don’t need to watch, maybe stew. Or mulled cider. For now, choose the TV to be silent and dark. Leave the vacuum in the closet. Instead, fold laundry. Whittle. Knit. Keep the lights low and sketch your first love. Or your last. Or your best. Learn a poem by heart. Welcome any reason to go outside. Throw some bread crumbs to the birds. Dead-head the begonias. Even—crazy thought— wash the car. Walk to the corner to mail the letter, and on your way back cut flowers for the table. Carry an umbrella if you must, but know that toweling dry your face and hair when you come in is prelude to the pleasure of soup and dry clothes. 2