Rainy Sundays Moments of Poetry

Can you see what I see?

Rain smells different in Japan. Actually rain smells different everywhere and at the same places at different times, but that info is not nearly as poetic as I was wanting this post to be.

I love the way rain affects the world. Everything quiets. Except footprints. And footsteps. Voices hush. Insects hum, gently, questioningly. When will it stop? Is it safe to spread my wings? Even the fearless cicadas' screaming falters into silence for the berth of the storm.

The sounds of traffic slush and swish. Streets slowly sound like rivers running back to unanswerable oceans and byways.

Roofs and balcony floors twinkle. They make noises at raindrop kisses like diamonds would sound when they glisten and sparkle.

The heat releases it's wrathfully glee if the rain really wants it too. She softly cools, turning colors and attitudes under dark clouds. A sweeping wind, changing the slant of falling water in the sky. I can see it; in the distance trees shift to its lulling will.

And when all has been said, when little mirrors of the sky litter the earth below, I also see the change. I feel this difference inside and outside of myself. The world is brighter. It seems for these few moments, perhaps even longer, a better place after the rain. Newer and more alive.

Sitting in the rain outside my window

 

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