Thirsty

It’s a breezy, gray day, two mornings after the first day of spring and the sky wants to rain but it won’t. No moisture here, only the breeze, rustling the branches of the tall firs, making them sway in time to its music. The new leaves on the climbing rose flutter; the sweet gum’s twiggy bare arms bounce just a little under its staccato force. When the breeze works up a gust, the old chimes by the woodpile sound and I think of monasteries and barefoot monks taking tea on grass mats, the breeze lifting the sleeves of their yellow robes while almond blossoms float through air like flakes of snow. This we long for, the trees, the rose leaves, the chimes, the sweet gum and me: snow, or now that the vernal equinox has come, rain borne on the breeze to quench the dry earth, which only holds on in hope of a drink.

*This is the first of some writing exercises I'm playing with, trying to add music and lilt to my prose. Thoughts, suggestions, critiques and snubs are most welcome.