Steel gray skies arrive on blustery gusts of frigid wind.
Birds, barometers with wings, abandon their feeders
to seek shelter deep in the arms of a familiar willow.
Golden leaves, recent arrivals in the currents
of yesterday's storm, swirl around the
base of a tall, slender cedar.
It will happen soon.
It will come.
Wait.
Faint tapping sounds announce the first arrivals
as droplets strike the skylight, advance guests
from darkening skies. Then fat drops
detonate on sidewalks, gather into
small pools, merge to become
a steady flow into the grated
gutter on the corner.
Sonata.
Sounds are everywhere. A percussion orchestra
supported by kettle drums of thunder and
mixed voices in the wind. The music
of rain echoes along the boulevard,
spattering, harmonizing in
puddles and ponds.
Adagio.
Everything is washed clean when the black sky
begins to lighten, turning soft gray as if
depleted, exhausted by the effort.
The music stops. The baton
rests. Everything glistens.
Quiet.
-
Author:
DesertWords (
Offline) - Published: January 1st, 2019 12:03
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 33
Offline)
Comments4
just like that rain, these words are refreshingly good.... Neville
Thanks Neville. I appreciate your encouragement. Roger
my pleasure
A fine write DW.
Thank you. I'm pleased that you found it interesting.
The rain cleans the ground as your words clean the soul. Good write.
Tardy in saying Thank You for you comment and encouragement. Sorry.
One of my first short stories a long time ago as a teenager was about the rain. Even then the rain was special, replenishing, pure, unfettered.
Thus resonates.
Rain holds a special fascination, doesn't it. We just don't get enough here in the desert.
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.