Katie and I determined to leave the writing center this evening, only to be confronted by a cold and dark and stormy night. I wasn't keen on the idea of lugging my bags halfway across campus to my car. Betty reminded me that I should think of it as practice for England. Of course. If it's English rain, that makes it more than tolerable. Even if my books would get wet in the trek, I wanted to spare my suede shoes, so I removed them. We turned up our borrowed umbrellas and dashed across the several hundred yards of wet pavement to Katie's dorm in my stocking feet. It's not so bad, after all, is it? Not at all.
After cups of spiced cider and handfulls of caramel popcorn, Katie insisted that I wear her black and white polka dot rain boots home. And I couldn't say no, even though they didn't match the beige and brown and olive green of my clothes. The fashion police would have arrested me if they had seen me, but I'm safe at home, thank goodness. Tomorrow, if it's still raining, I'll make sure my outfit matches the boots. Or maybe not.
I wrote a poem about rain boots the last time it rained. I hope you like it. If you think you know what it means (if anything), tell me, please?
Pull out the boots;
They’re in the back porch closet.
Found them? Now
Shake them upside down in case
A mouse has made its nest
In the absence of a foot.
Pull on the boots,
And let your feet explore
Cool rubber caves.
Pull open the door
And let yourself explore
The pasture where cows have been.