Our Song is Heard in The Rain

Our song is heard in the rain.

It cleanses our bodies

Or adds weight to our clothes.

We splash in the puddles,

Either with joy or impatience.

Drops tremble to the ground,

In guidance with the winds.

We try to stay dry

In our sterile rooms inside,

Waiting for its watery secession.

But it pounds through our blood,

Adding birth to coffee,

Tea, drinks or just a container.

Molding its shape to the cup’s will.

It rumbles through the showerhead,

Making soapy marks in the washer.

It boils, it whistles, it pours out steam;

It silently bears presence as ice or frost.

We would perish without it.

Our song is heard in the rain.

 

© 2018 Valerie Hathaway

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