Rain is falling in drips and drops instead of streams,

Pretending to run for cover neighborhood kids, secretly pray for more rain.

Over the hollow resound of water dripping in the drain pipe, I hear a voice calling my name.

No one in the stillness of the neighborhood takes their garbage can out early on rainy mornings.

Finished, or almost finished with its dropping for today the rain holds us at bay.

The fire on the mountain relishes this rain.

The sound of a distant train whistles a rain refrain.

The sky is a grey place calming even almighty sun.

The window tappin; is rain’s little drummer boy.

I remain in bed, comforted by her lullaby.

If I open my eyes now, I could cry rain.

Taking the dog out and Tilting my head back, I could taste the rain.

We are possibilities grown from rain. Whenever it rains you will think of us.

It is not a hard rain, but a soft, gentle one. Hear it. Smell it.

Feel it.


About m.a. wood

writer, thinker, musician, teacher
This entry was posted in poem and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

1 Response to Rain

  1. M.J. Moores says:

    Reblogged this on .


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