The dark clouds gather; it’s starting to rain.
The dry fields need it. Crops don’t grow in dust.
In deserts it’s not easy to grow grain.
A plowed field can fill the sky in a gust.
My dog comes in to tell me, “It’s raining!”
Not much moisture yet, but the breeze smells sweet.
The air is cool, fresh, humid, earth-settling.
Petrichor rises from the empty street,
A brief sprinkle with the promise of more.
The clouds have settled for the duration,
A break from endless sunny skies restores
The mind beneath the cloud formations.
Rainy days in this bright dry valley are
Worth celebrating, so precious, so rare.
And, once again, I enter this with all good intentions of using the word of the prompt and I forget. Well there’s a glimpse of hope for tomorrow.
This is a Shakespearean sonnet, more or less. 14 lines, ababcdcdefefgg. Iambic pentameter (10 syllable lines with the stress on every other syllable, but I’m not a fetishist about that). The final six lines are supposed to set up a situation established by or counter to the first 8 lines. I’m not big on rules, though, other than the rhyme and syllable thing. I’m writing sonnets as a mental challenge, mostly, but once in a while one might be good. I started writing sonnets when I realized I just don’t have much more to say in one of my customary blog posts at the moment.