Rain falls

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A relentless rain falls in puddles.
Hundreds of rivulets run happily
downhill gathering in noisy storm drains,
rushing home to the sea.
Daylight begins in creamy shade,
not yet white nor grey.
The sun awakes beyond the rain and perhaps
sees past promises of soothsayers
to keep our hope alive.
The mountain wears old lace and dingy wash.
Random percussions, slow to frenetic,
Give silence a break.
The wind breathes just enough
to tousle a pepper tree now and again.

It is a Brittany rain,
beyond the bay windows of a study hall,
moving in waves across a landscape
of rubbles and forgotten berms.
It soaks brave thistles, weeds, and gorse
stubbornly pushing out yellow buds.
Sheets of sweet Atlantic water splash
on teary glass and new concrete.
In the hushed rustle of paper and squeaky chairs,
the Spleens of Baudelaire begin to make sense.
There are no trees.
Twenty years after the war and acorns have yet to sprout.

It is a New York winter rain
keeping kids indoors with crayons and coloring books,
Legos and woodblocks,
while mama sews little blue pants from a maternity dress.
Tangles of black brambles and vines claw
at glistening trunks of wild dogwoods.
Rusty remnants of hydrangeas
bend and weep on the lane.

Rain seeps through old casement windows.
The little one, barefoot again,
stands on the armchair to draw lines
on fogged up panes with a finger.
She watches the fat shiny drops meander,
coughs again, and sits.

Mama winces at the sound of pain,
leaves her sewing, takes the child in her arms.
They both watch the rain create tiny rivers
and waterfalls down an abutting cliff.
Baby sinks into mama’s warm heartbeat.
Soft little curls the color of sunshine against her lips,
mama recalls coconut trees and rice paddies,
rolling tanks and tracer rounds
of another time, another place,
a faraway life that has lost all meaning.

A relentless rain falls
on a muffled world.
But a crazy bird sings close by
It’s a rrrain-yyyyy day!
Hee-hee-heeee! Plenty to eat when it stops.
Sweeeet-sweet-sweeeet!

So it is…
There might even be rainbows.

rain clouds

 

About emmylgant

Cloud watcher and dreamer sometimes wise, often foolish, but I am what I am.
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19 Responses to Rain falls

  1. john zande says:

    If you ever visit Sao Paulo, you’ll have Sao Paulo Rain: an ocean of water falling as one sheet.

    Like

  2. Katharine says:

    Oh so delicious, your words, your rains…

    Like

  3. You put the Em in Magic.
    What a tale you weave here, from France, the USA and Vietnam, the elements tell your story and you tell theirs.
    Of rain, and childhood, and war, and family, and of now and here.
    You stand alone.
    AnElephant bows.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Dale says:

    That was absolutely fabulous… I was snagged along the way and wanted it to go on… Wish that I could write like that…

    Liked by 1 person

  5. PapaBear says:

    I still have memories of that “other place, other time”, rice paddies and palm trees, tracers lighting up the night…, but you brought me back to reality with the little bird’s perspective on the rain, and tomorrow. Beautifully done, Emm. Hugs…, and Happy Thanksgiving. 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

  6. Arkenaten says:

    I generally do not ‘get’ poetry of any sort, being a Neanderthal in this respect, but this is simply marvelous.

    Like John over in Brazil, we are in Rainy Season over here in Johannesburg.
    We have had a few serious downpours of late – serious flooding of a few main thoroughfares causing loss of life.

    And the lightning storms can really scare the pants off you!

    Liked by 1 person

    • emmylgant says:

      Your photographs are poetry to me. Some more than others to be sure, but still.
      I think we both love what we see and there is a compulsion to share the wonders we witness. Thank you for taking the time to read and comment and my deepest apology for being so rude by letting time escape from me for so long and not tending to my friends.

      Liked by 1 person

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