Spring means water. That falls from the sky, soaks the hills green and awakens seedlings in their faerie dance toward the sun.
April showers bring May flowers – mother always said when I was little and complaining about putting on boots and hats. Peering the grey skies never informed me of vibrant reds, blues, yellows or pinks but rather of squatting near heaters with tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich.
And the rain set my rhyming voice a-spinning. April showers last for hours. April showers dilute my powers. April showers topple towers.
When April comes, I wait for May – I wait for flowers and dream of dappled sun under leafy canopies, where the breeze whispers her secrets to me.
Anita Rodgers Mystery Writer 