-This poem reflects on April rain as a gentle nourishment that deepens the life of the waking world.
It comes in silver through the dawn,
a patient hush on roof and road,
soft hands upon the waking grass,
a quiet laid across the earth.
The branches drink, the dark soil yields,
small roots receive what cannot last,
and every stone, and leaf, and sill,
is touched by this brief blessing down.
The air grows tender with its fall,
the garden deepens into scent,
and somewhere under folded green,
the hidden things are fed again.
No thunder breaks the morning wide,
no storm declares what must become,
just this clear rain, this gentle gift,
and all the world grows more alive.