Rain so light, call it mist

Gathering on me almost unnoticed

Except for my glasses

And the pond’s splashes

And where it bruises the apple blossoms.

 

Call it misting, a soft day,

For lingering in the back doorway,

Too damp to be out long

Too fresh to miss the garden

And apple blossoms at their sweetest.

 

Betwixt between April and May

Between here and away

A girl I’ve been

A girl I’ll be

Petals stuck to my boots either way.

 

The truth is, it’s a soft day

The toughest tender things to say

Hands and feet warm

Hair wet through

Call it growing weather.