Rain

I love the rain, the sound of it falling through the leaves, on the rooftops, into puddles. I love rain on a tin roof, loud and obnoxious and musical all at once. I love the way rain splatters. I love the way it cleanses; washes away.

When I can I walk in the rain. When I need to I run in the rain. When no one is looking I dance in it, and let the rain drops carry me away.

I hope it rains one day while I'm home. I want to watch it fall on the banana leaves again, and see the red dirt I was born on swell up into muddy rivets running along the street and turning my backyard into a rich mud-bath. I want to gaze at the sea before me once more when the waves are grey with tiny white caps, and the sky is but a shade lighter, and a seagull with its feathers earily glowing white swoops down over the scene. Somehow that has always been my definition for peace, even though it was in the middle of a rainstorm.

A poem I wrote several months back keeps flitting across my mind today. That happens sometimes. But I can't find it; I think I put it on a different computer or drive than I have here just now. It's the rythmm of it that has me, I think.

It has me thinking and remembering and wondering again, which I have not because it has been too tiring for some time now.

I dream every night now of being back there, of being home. And I wake crying almost every time. In seven days I'll be back there at last, and I won't have to dream again. So it makes me wonder... what will waking up be like?

Rain wash us bright again.