I'm Tracy K Smith and this is the slowdown slowdown rain. Hammers down onto my roof. As I right it's one of my favorite sounds like the night is throwing its thousand fingers onto my house. How can there be so many raindrops? How have they not been exhausted? Austin if I listen discerningly I can hear the difference between the droplets hitting my house and those landing in the trees raise persistent a blanket of sound covering everything tomorrow. The ground will turn to mud and more leaves will litter the Slick Street but the pines the laurels and whatever else has held onto its green. We'll look happy come morning. Well rested my son's Piano Teacher told me the other day that worrying helps nothing nothing. Does she know me already that well or was she talking. Perhaps to herself there's time to resolve wants more about what to become when I feel the urge to cower I want instead to choose to rejoice when I feel pitiful pointless lost and afraid. I want to remember tonight's rain racing from however far are it's traveled to reach my house hurling itself onto my roof calling to me at the top of its voice. Today's poem is listen by Barbara. croker its message of calm and gratitude is one. I want to learn to offer offer myself especially on days when peace feels far away. Are there people out. There who live always without doc gratitude that sense of the world with its simple gifts being all the plenty they seek. I'd like to be one of them for more than just an hour at a time. Can I get there by resolve by practice by force. Maybe they are are simply people like me who have perfected the work of trying who've learned to hang on a little longer each day to the thrill of Waking King. Worrying helps nothing. The rain falls then as a matter. Of course it leaps back into the sky listen by Barbara Crooked. I want to tell you something something. This morning is bright after all the steady rain and every iris peony rose opens opens. It's mouth rejoicing. I want to say wake up. Open your eyes. There's a snow covered road ahead a field of blackness a sheet of paper an empty screen even the smallest insects are singing vibrating reading their entire bodies. Tiny violins of longing and desire. We were made for song. I can't tell you what prayer is but I can take the breath of the meadow into my mouth and I can release it for the leaves Green. It need. I want to tell you. Your Life is a blue col- a slice of orange in the mouth cut hay in the nostrils. The cardinals red song dances in your blood. Look every month the the moon blossoms into a peony then shrinks to a sliver of garlic and then it blooms again. The slowdown is a production of American public media in partnership with the Poetry Foundation. Together Paul home delivered to you daily. Go to slow down show dot O._R._G.. And sign up for our newsletter.