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.
Naturally Orla 