I have heard too many of those dispirited voices
complain that the rain is too grim ––
that clouds shut out light
and the pitter-patter too dull
for this, and every enchanting night.
Only in minds, do they think
all things dull must be sad.
For I have seen plants bathe
in soft water, mending bruises
on tender leaves;
ants crawl out of dirty mud ––
they shower-dance, they forgive sins.
They dance to the rhythm of each tap:
to the tunes of healing.
The rain, a piano; and I, a journeyman
sat in company.
I ask for its music to rinse
houses, factories, paths
along which I’ve heard ill-tempered men
and when in vicinity ––
the grunts of labor echo disappointment
or the man and wife yell about history
make the rain’s melody all I can hear
so the sobs of sad men
are nothing to me.
The rain and I, strangers ––
yet it takes me to the distant abode
where I lay in the cradle, listening
to lullabies or études:
I am reminded of warmth
like a mother’s hug, a burning hearth ––
for the sound of home surrounds me
and taps deep into my soul.
Tomorrow, the sun will blaze on
and all my troubles will return
but tonight, may I drift off
to blissful sounds and reveries.
