The sky is a spring rain sky, a particular shade of whitish gray,
and a light rain is falling.
Gentle and steady, making only the slightest sound.
You need to concentrate to hear it,
But then again, watching the drops,
Some people claim that it makes them sleepy or even depressed.
For me, however, the sound of the drops on the windowpane evokes
Boyhood memories of reading books about great adventures
In places where it seldom seemed to rain.
It never rained on Indiana Jones.
Never rained much on Sci Fi planets
Or in the old West.
It evokes thoughts of sleeping cats, whistling tea kettles,
Sweaters and down-filled duvets,
The smell of Mom making cinnamon rolls,
And great, blessed quiet.
I remember looking out my window and watching little rivulets,
Tumble down the roof into the eaves,
And think how happy the plants and flowers must be for this rain.
How it washed the dust from the street
Like tears clean the eye
And sometimes the heart.
But the spring rain is hardly tears,
Unless they are tears of joy.
It is what awakes all the seeds and bulbs,
That sleep in the earth.
It makes little green shoots pop up.
If Easter celebrates a resurrection,
So does the rain that precedes it
Call life that is sleeping in the earth.
And with each new spring
I feel the same wonder,
And my mind is called to new adventures.
And it once more calls me as it did before,
To imagination, comfort.
And the hope of new life.