Winter rains pelt San Francisco daily, eroding ebullience along with the drought. Rain falls on my porch’s tin awning and through a ceiling hole over my kitchen stove. The jade bush outside flowers pink in this winter wet. Indefatigable ants march from the kitchen sink across the stove and up into the pantry. Friends stay home, as do I. California hibernates during the rains.
When the rains abate one morning, I run to Golden Gate to perform my exercises on the wet grass. As even the tourists are absent, my only company are park crews sawing apart fallen trees. I get wet during sit-ups.
In a foul mood from the rain, from the gray, from the weeks of bored ennui, from the break-up, I look about the park. Strange tropical plants bloom. Ferns shoot forth a symphony of fiddleheads. The sylvan elves with their bows might dash among the moist redwoods.
Every season has its majesty and its place. Every mood and period have their purposes. It is not for me to discount them. Bring on the rains. I will watch the growth.