Soft rain, drizzles of baby wet kisses on your hair and cheek.
The wipers are hesitant, confused, fog or dog licks?
Lights in the distance and Douglas firs guide you for miles.
When we get out of the house to replenish the larder, adventure is calling.
Worth the price of gas, the wear and tear on these tired limbs.
I'm usually the passenger, hypnotized by the green, even in the fog and the rain.
I want to scream sometimes, incoherent words that call for color, any other color.
Give me Red! Yellow would be nice too! Give me Sun!
Soon, I fall in line and the greens lull me into reverie.
We'll die here, I think.
I'll bury my love here.
I'll rest here in all this green.
I'll turn around, if I need adventure, and go visit the ocean blue and grey and sandy and green.
Or, I'll go south to L.A. where the freeways will cure me.
Or the smog.
Or the crowds.
Or the arid land.
Or the price of parking.