The Rain

From ears half muted from within,

I still can hear the whoosh of wind,

And patter, patter of the rain,

It plinks and plays on window pane.

With eyes more blurred from aging sight,

A slip of moon is clear tonight,

Against a black and cloud filled sky,

A soulful, somber winking eye.

Now I with less of youthful gait,

Move freely still; I promulgate-

That I will move until my God,

Removes me from this earthly sod.

And I rejoice and nature sings,

I relish all the simple things,

And in the rain a teardrop fall,

Is strained; sequestered and so small.

Peter Lowell Paulson

April 26, 2011