Leaves sparkling after an evening rain.
The rain is a thing with a voice.
Sometimes it so gently taps on your window,
Sometimes it crashes down with wrathful noise.
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The rain is a thing that can understand.
Speaking to you with many tones,
Caressing your face with its watery hand.
The rain is a thing that can feel.
It’s skies a light, fluffy gray,
Turning occasionally to a dark, dense steel.
The rain is a thing that is living.
It knows just when it is needed,
Granting water; a being that is life-giving.
What a lonely existence it knows.
Consoling everyone but itself,
It weeps with unimaginable lows.
The rain is so complex,
No one could ever truly see.
The amount of things it affects,
Go unrealized; a pity.
