It's the kind of rain that wants to be part of you, cling to the tiny hairs on your arms and the back of your neck, slip down the riverbed of your back and settle on your eyelashes.
This is barefoot rain. Rain boots cannot combat this downpour, as you will carry ponds around your shins as the boots fill, ecosystems blooming from the ankle up.
Be quiet during this rain. It has something to say, spoken through the rush of drain pipes and pitter patter on leaves - listen, listen! Can you hear the epic told in storms, leisurely poems in summer showers, or epilogues left to gather in puddles, stirred by children in yellow boots, secrets spun and scattered by twirling umbrellas.
Don't wish the rain away, or you would never hear the suns response in the age old conversation occurring in the sky.
- Written on the 504 streetcar during a rain storm
YOU ARE READING
Eventide
شِعرa little collection of the poems and prose that stuck, the ones I can't un-memorize. written at eventide. (Cover photo taken by me, please leave it where it is)
