The roses hang their heads, giving thanks for rain. The thunder rolls, a reminder you are small. I walk, jumping puddles. Socks don’t dry to quick as feet. I think of those I have not heard from lately. I am safe and warm in my long black raincoat. They should make raincoats in bright colors. The grey day is enough without the dark shadows moving through it. My bright blue scarf shows. Rain makes me think of other things, other days, places far away – of London and Oxford, the mountains and the rolling grasslands, the small towns with brick-front shops on main street where “progress” has seldom ventured.
Rain shows me things unseen. It makes me long for good friends and steaming mugs. It makes me dream of days to come and of days long gone. That is why they say rainy days are sad days. As we long for that which is not while trying to go about with that which is. Life does not stop for the rain. Businesses and schools do not close so the people can gather in the coffee shops and living rooms and share with each other their dreams and memories or catch up with old friends. People still hurry when all the time they feel the urge to slow, to wait, to watch the rain.
I think about the things unseen and wish I were elsewhere, but where would that be? For in truth, I love the rain. I love the rain for the things it shows me and the feelings it brings me and would be nowhere else if it meant to be without them. I love the rain for its softness and its ferocity. I love it for the life it brings and for the moment when my mind turns inward and I see myself washed clean; I see the world washed clean for just that moment before the sunlight returns to dazzle my eyes.
I see poetry in the rain.