Rain falls as if the heavens could cry for all the years of toil upon the uneven plain – the years of holding herself against the pain, the times of overwhelming joy.
Rain falls as if nothing else mattered, and the wet feathered friend sings regardless of its nest fostering young life dampened in mist.
Rain falls as if mud were a king demanding his due, lakes fill and streams flow where once only desperation cracked the face of empty promise.
Rain falls until a telling wind passes and again the far coming of hopes refreshed return, and the bright happenings of a yellow atomic god.
let your body meld into your spirit’s wet, and love “as the small rain upon the tender herb.”
yep, still raining.