Rain

It was the end of summer.

A time for umbrellas and raincoats.

Of dimming lampposts. Of graying skies.

Shadows left standing on the trail of the sun,

hanging on to what’s left of the light.

Like moist blown on a glass saying,

“I miss you, when are you coming home?”

A constant struggle to stay alive

on that glass of dew. Holding

on to the cold breath of rain. Dreading

the sun’s kiss on its tender lips.

A time to escape forgotten dreams

and reminiscent sepia photographs.

Of old songs on a phonograph

in the wings of the night.

Lost secrets in the burr of the wind.

Water trickling from the face of clouds

expressing their anguish down to the sand.

In spurts to tickle the soft tissue of earth.

Children prancing, thrashing in mirth.

A bath for the first time. Mimicking

the rain, as they throw cold drops

on their friends’ backs. Splash tidal

waves of blue in jovial laughter.

Cleanse the skin. Drench the thirst.

In bursts to wash away the soot and the dust.

Whittled phone calls in the echoes of thunder,

unheard whispers of, “I want to see you again…”

Forever abstruse under the din of nimbus clouds.

Of wayward voices catching a cold

and fade into the night.

Of drowned laughter. Of lost dreams.

“It rains on the just and the unjust alike.”

To separate black and white to shades of gray.

Prepare the ground for a new day.

A rose. A tree. A child.

It was the first of summer.