Hurry has no poetry.
It only rushes, muttering, grumbling.
Dashing here. Dashing there.
Nibbling. Never tasting.
Dabbling. Never diving.
Skittering on the surface.
No, hurry has no poetry.
For poetry lives in the soul of the rain,
That slowly comes, murmuring,
Mysteriously through the night;
Whispering, never shouting,
Trickling, never pounding,
Soaking to the heart of the earth.
For poetry lives in the heart of the rain.
August 19, 2016