My Love is the Rain

The rain, it keeps on falling, falling down
in buckets, liters, whirlpools, collecting in vast puddles.
Cannot stop pouring, reaching,
washing away what was once lost and abandoned.
A full page, wet with raindrops,
spatters and trickles down soft cheeks.
The water swims as it filters down;
mixed with teardrops, so salty.
Dirt collides with the rain,
creating a rich brown mud
in which to cover the sidewalk and pavement.
The absorbent earth sucks up the clouds gifts;
the leaves glisten green, bright, as they eat the water up.
The rain, it sprinkles across every windowpane, glass
misting up with its hot breath and gentle touch.
It smells, so crisp and fresh.
Nostrils heave in the stormy clouds overhead,
grey and pulsing. Rolls of fluff in the sky,
like thick plushy cotton-balls.
They cover the normal blue with no color.
A blank canvas.
Like all the color was sucked out, slurped up. Gone.
What remains is a cold, wet, damp nothingness.
The need to write this all down speaks wonders.
A small, but sure writing practice with the scent of rain,
and the breath of assurance.
Spelling doesn’t matter.
It never did.
The bending time frames see all that was lost.
These words engulf the page, white and slender,
with the same voraciousness as the rain
as it washes away the dust on boots and soaks subtle cotton.
Just let it all out,
seek virtue in the dim morning light
as slivers of silver strings steam through the combustible door-frame.
Just write, write, write.
Do not stop to think or pause.
Let it make sense in what is confusing or muddled.
Erase mistakes,
and keep on going, moving, learning, living, breathing, hurting, smiling.
No, no more wimpy thoughts of wallowed shivers and bumpy skin.
No, no more stalling; just break down the barriers of life,
as it silently calls from beneath the quiet, peaceful trees.
The need to write is quite amazing; for it trickles out of hands and fingertips, and doesn’t wait to find the brain waves to take it all the way home.
Follow those mute thoughts,
like a sick old blind man.
Only a few stacks of lines remain
for vigor and spoken water rushes out the metal, bronze, wood, and silt.
Feel the beauty of nature and thank the rain,
as it cleanses every stem, leaf, and flower.
The rain keeps on falling, falling down.