The Rhythm of Rain

Waking

Light and gentle, it taps out quiet rhythms
on the pavement and grass beneath my window,
speaking in whispered tones, beckoning, reminding,
saying softly and slowly; ebb and flow. My breaths, rise
and fall, even and deep.

Driving

A quiet ride to work, wipers on intermitten
drifting back and forth across the windshield.
Louis Armstrong plays a lazy trumpet, capturing
middle highs and long lows that float and swirl
with the scent of morning and early summer.

Walking

Cool rain scatters on my skin, matching drops
to freckles. Each stride, slow and steady, not quickening,
but pausing, delighting in drips that surprise my cheeks
with pearls of water- sliding from eyelashes
into the half-moon smile of my eyes.