Evening Rain

When the first rain hits in mid-April,

My soul prepares itself not for powerful tempests,

But rather for pure delight.

Mother taught that rain was love.

The first drop that falls upon the skin is noticed,

Or sometimes ignored.

But soon,

More and more drops fall from the sky,

Marking the streets and cleaning residue from winter’s work.

The flowers sing when the sweet water courses their roots,

Their leaves, being tickled by the brisk droplets,

Laugh.

We run for shelter in the rain,

We want to stay dry, our minds left in the clear and the comforting.

I’ve always been fond of love.

Rarely does it take the form of anything I understand.

I desire it to be predictable, to be planned.

But it rains when it rains.

And, on an evening such as this,

Who could say no?