There is something about the sound of rain,
the dynamics of rain
that makes paradoxes.
It seduces, induces,
instills fear, quiet.
Makes me want to open my mouth,
stick out my tongue
and let it lap my taste buds.
Makes me want to splash a puddle,
avoid wet socks and shoes.
Makes me want to nap, lounge, meditate.
Makes me grateful knowing streams, rivers,
and riverbeds are filling,
but not enough in California
when I view video crusts of earth cracked,
gouged, and lacking.
And too too much in The Philipines,
and not enough in Africa.
Makes me feel the syncopation
of its onomatopoeia on siding, sidewalks, and leaves.
Makes me want to sing Raindrops
Keep Falling on My Head,
or make up my own rain song.
Dorothy Marie Rice fancies herself a writer, poet, and art maker, who wishes she could add singer, guitarist, and harpist to her repertoire; but remains grateful for what the maker provides.