how i love the rain
If I could talk to the rain
I think she would tell me
how she loved my skin.
libations she’d poured
unto my kinfolk,
her reflection alight on us
as an ambient glow.
I think that she’d tell me
how she loved when
I went out to dance
to her softly sung soliloquy,
and tell each other stories
about times I had loved her
and how she had loved me.
I would tell her about my favorite tea.
The one I’d sip, religiously,
soon as she’d come to greet me,
when her pattering would grace my window.
How I would let it steep,
wait patiently,
allow the blues and greens
resident in her sound,
the orange awash with amber,
resting on the mellow bronze pool,
I’d drink whilst conversing.
Telling her how I loved the winter,
when she’d step slowly,
so delicately down.
Insulating the world around us,
our conversations a whisper,
to preserve the silence her presence
had cast before us
in blankets of frigid white.
I’d reminisce the spring
when she’d stay for days and days.
Her being,
my perfect excuse,
to sit still and speak,
without ever using my voice,
because she knew
how I’d loved the blooming flowers
and reviving trees,
soon coming,
from the waters she’d leave.
I’d tell her how I loved her in summer
cooling me with her touch
as though I’d earned the same grace
she’d bestowed upon the earth,
blessed, beneath me.
How I would tell her I’d loved
the times I’d hummed along
to the the song she’d play,
as she danced beside my window.
How I quietly admired
as I watched her cascade,
her poetry poking holes
into unknown parts
of my ever unfolding soul.
How she washed over,
in and between,
my timid spirit.
our communion begging my solace flow.
How her peace passed gently,
descending from crown to sole,
her peace made mine,
if only for a time,
asking only that I pour
as she pours unto me.
How I loved the letters written
on the parchment of my heart.
How her voice carried tones
of love that fills and fills completely,
of sorrow that is held and exhaled gratefully,
of an embrace that unfurls you, and returns you whole,
and a longing that is never unfulfilled.
If I could talk to the rain
I’d tell her all the ways
I loved her,
and loved the ways
she had loved me.