The rain is pouring down like the bottom fell out. It always reminds me of growing up. There was a period of time that we had a tin roof. When it rained; sometimes it seemed you could count the drops as they fell. It was like a great lullabye; other times the effect was not so peaceful. I remember the thrill of running out onto the porch to watch the ribbons of water streaming from the roof, forming little rivers for the paper boats we would build later. So much rhythm in the falling water, from puddles to tiny water rapids, all creating a symphony of wetness soaking a parched earth. Sometimes you could hear the grass sign from the relief. Here's one of my short rain poems...
Drip...Drip...Drop
Drip...drip...drop...
It fell, it ran, it came down.
From the highest to the lowest
From tower high to gutter low
It fell, it ran, it came down.
Drip...drip...drop...
So do men's spirits frown,
From glee highest to doom low.
From the exhalt to the plummet
From the summit top to valley low.
Drip...drip...drop...
Then waxes the moon
A demon dwelt by doom,
A doom demanding death,
A death from sky to ground.
Drip...drip...drop...
The rain falls; each drop splatters
Swelling at impact,
Swelling to explosion,
Swelling beyond life's clutch.
Drip...drip...drop...
Life gone and splatters pop
No longer having certain form,
Chaos rules a disjointed drip,
As it falls from drip to plop.
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