commiseration and misery, not the same thing, on this rainy day, how soon the tides sway, a grought they say, yes, and I can attest to such lack of rain, these many days, no, months, as I could almost feel my lawn leech and pray for moisture, I am not a slave to my lawn (like my neighbor who labors over his constantly for a green state admittedly better than mine, so I guess the grass is truly greener on his side), but, a beige carpet is not the most inviting thing, although my passion is really my bamboo babies, nine tribes (varieties to you), some people collect stamps, me? bamboo, and how they have shaded me these long days, an indian summer dragged on, and more poor babes looked forlorn, against a sad canvas of dried out lawn, so of course I fight, this natural cycle of life, hosing them down until yesterday, when blessed rain finally came, of course though the rain was not alone, it came home with a chill, not enough for frost but enough for bone to chill, and now, after praying for such relief, a mere 24 hours later the drought seems like a better mistress, how the tide sways, how soon the grey drapes drag on the psyche, but I look to my bamboo, to see the subtle glee, and quite imagine the relief my plants must feel, they speak to me from their finger long leaves, perked up with what must be a chlorophyl full hope, from dire droop to upward slope, so matter my human doldrums I must look around, to see how the earth now soaks up the life, the water, a gulping sound inaudible to me, but with which I am surrounded. and I smile at the rain drops now, some still suspended on the window still, waiting to gather or just evaporate.