Before bed–before tossing troubled dreams and hurried mornings–I leave you this…

It’s an excerpt from a Ted Hughes poem I read over today [for those of you who don't know him, Hughes was a British poet laureate, and the husband of Sylvia Plath.]
It’s the last few lines of his poem entitled “Fate Playing,” featured in his book “Birthday Letters.”

“…and now your triumph, splashed over me,
Like love forty-nine times magnified,
Like the first thunder cloudburst engulfing
The drought in August
When the whole cracked earth seems to quake
And every leaf trembles
And everything holds up its arms weeping.”

I particularly love the imagery of arms–dry and thirsting–outstretched to welcome the rain.