The crisp hangs in the afternoon air. Leaves start to blanket the country road. Red tinges the Japanese Maple.

The First Rain comes.

It is sweet. The air fills with smells of all of the flowers and pollen and leaves. The first damp dirt since June. The sound of the pattering rain is foreign. A forgotten friend. The Tomatoes and Roses sigh a relief, as the pansies crank their necks skyward for refreshment.

The sleep is the most comforting.  As the blanket of dusk surrounds the home, the soft melodic pitter of rain on the roof. The fireplace calls out for flame.

And every year it is the same.

When the memory must be kept of the first sweet rain. The refreshing filling of earth. Vanilla candles lit to warm the home, the lantern flame reflects on window – a beacon to the lake.

Water is calm, and the birds are rejoicing. The Geese have returned. The young Mallards more brave. Sparrows and chickadees are sporting a thick furry fat coat.

And I beg. Beg the resources of my memory. To store this moment. Hot Coffee. Comforting book. Warm Home. The joy that fills my heart.  I beg it to return to me.

In February. In March. In April. In May and In June. Will the last day of the 8 months of rain feel as sweet as the first? Oh to keep this joy.

Is to be a coastal girl.

This coastal girl is looking forward to the adventure of winter. 🙂