A million shimmering crystals could not replicate the canvas of rain,
for the rain alone can colour your spirit
and you can wear it on your coat, your skirts, even your scarf that is now soggy
but diamonds you need to store in a safe
then wear them to dinner where there are others like you
and it’s pleasing, that social function
for you smile and laugh and put on acceptable faces which in turn elevates your spirit
then what is it about rain and damp and cloudy skies that conspire together so
they don’t seem to need an invitation into your circumstance
especially when you aren’t dressed for the occasion
they create for you a phantasmagoria of turbulence
where you feel the swell of tidal overwhelm
the precipitation of sorrow
the comfort of petrichor
abandoned by the sun
the aroma of a hot tea
random thoughts of some obscure poet in the eighteenth century
speaking of unfamiliar things
you complain about the weather as if it were some relative you grouse about
everything is wet
some places look drier than wet
the plants watered usually with chlorinated water seem so happy
like the dog that shakes off her drenched fur
then there are voices of childhood
that float along as if in an impromptu performance
much to your surprise
for you never thought of them
but they thought of you
Ah, the rain, a billion shimmering raindrops and I can wear them whichever way I please
.
.
.
Ah the rain and all it can mean. The rain is always fertile ground for poetry.