Raindrops

Raindrops falling from the sky,
Are split apart in death,
They always shatter on the ground
Yet they go up and fall again.

A raindrop is a raindrop,
Multiplied by two.
Do you think those raindrops,
Are in love, both one and two?

How sad and brief is love's embrace,
How sudden is their parting.
And fitting for their state and life,
In the end, they burst into tears.

How many raindrops do you see?
How many can you count?
How many of those can you catch and keep,
Within an outstretched palm?

How simple is the raindrop's life!
It simply has to fall.
How pitiful its simplicity!
For it must always fall.

Some say a raindrop is a tear,
Shed by an aging sky.
Some say a raindrop is a token,
Of a cloud's silent good-bye.

But still some say that rain is just
A symptom. Nothing more.
Of clouds that find the air too cold,
And so precipitate to the floor.

They fall to the ground and scatter,
They are swayed easily by the wind,
They may glint a bit, slightly in the sun,
But really, what does it matter?

A raindrop can be angry, strong,
A raindrop can be joyful.
A raindrop can be soft and sad,
Invisible, as glass.

A raindrop must fall to the ground,
For there it must finally perish.
It's fate is doom, it's life must end,
And yet, what does it do?

It glitters in the sun with joy,
It clings lovingly to its friends,
It is noisy when it feels the need,
It is quiet when it doesn't.

It lives its life without control,
But not with lifeless silence.
So if raindrops don't have poetry,
Then my friend, neither do we.

Mist and Rain

The rain was churning the lake into a fine spray, a mist that swept into the city, a huge mass rolling in, ominous as the storm clouds above it, yet soft and silent. Slowly blotting out the buildings, one after the other, suddenly and quietly. Smothered lies the city now, and darkened is the sky. Some might stand with fluttering, frightened hearts, but not me. Not I.

The rain is all that cuts it, but the rain is only part of it. The mist is pressing up against the glass. It cannot enter, so it knocks. A raindrop. Now two. It cannot enter. The rain is stronger. It cannot enter. It knocks with abandon. Yet no one listens. No one pities. Both mist and rain want shelter from the wind.

The wind masters them, tosses them, blows them off course, first this way, then that. It is merciless and biting, cold and strong, and the rain is at it's mercy, as is the billowing mist.

So they knock at every door, both mist and rain, and the wind does follow. They smother all in search of shelter, not finding, they depart, leaving Church spires wet, and windows hazy.

They come towards me. I see them coming. I wait for their embrace. The streetlights are flickering, beneath the roiling mist. The sky is ringing with claps of thunder, and exploding into shards of lightning, beyond the approaching curtains of rain.

The mist is coming. It has drowned the world already. It presses against the glass. It knocks, quite gently, twice.

It raps quickly, desperately.

It breaks upon the window, battering it, hammering it, but not shattering it, no.

I open it.

A wave washes over me, as fresh and strong as one from the storm tossed lake that lies outside the city. A wet, cool spray. It surrounds me. The rain pours in. It drowns me.

I stand silent in a tempest that is terrible in its joy, its chaos loud, overwhelming. But I let it overwhelm. It is angry. Let anger pass.

The mist is all around me. It has fallen silent. My room is no longer my own. The mist becomes all I know, damp and swirling, slowly curling, around my legs, my arms and eyes. It has me. It holds me. It overwhelms me. It drowns me.

Ah, what a feeling! To be drenched in the rain, and drowning in the mist!