February in California

I want to go outside and sit sheltered and hear the
sound of the rain - the nearly silent rain that explains,
if I only knew its language, why
I have to lie here now with sore ribs and
listen, barred from walking out and getting wet. Time,
I suppose it would say. Some explanation. Time for me, though,
to get Stephen Hawking from the library and go through his
history once more, slowly. In large print, of course (because
of time?). Meanwhile I'll sleep with the sore ribs up; will
that make both sides sore by morning? I've lived through
worse & I'll survive this - just give me time.