The Rain

I am friends with the rain.
In childhood romps,
Tripping in Mom’s brown rubber boots,
A metal yardstick cold in my eager hand,
Testing each puddle,
Dispersing the results with exulting kicks.


Somehow we lost touch,
The rain and I.
A drop-specked window between us,
Like the endless miles of a road.
Umbrellas, hoods, windshield wipers,
Anything to create a barrier,
From wet and cold,
As if wet and cold could no longer bring me joy.


A misty drizzle joined me on my run the other day,
Uninvited.
Pulling sweatshirt sleeves over my hands,
Setting my gaze forward.
One misstep crashed into a puddle,
Sock now soaked and spattered,
Determining to run – in spite of.


Tender drops covering my face,
Damp tendrils of hair playing in the wind,
Sleeved hands give way to wet as well,
Rain persists.
This rain, that scents the air like no other,
That makes the lake dance,
The ducks revel,
The grass like a carpet of jewels.
This rain, that makes me wet and cold,
I remember,
This rain is my friend.
Opening my arms, turning my face to heaven,
The ashen clouds effuse beauty.
I plunge into the next puddle with purpose and delight,
Choosing to run – because of.