Quiet then,
only slightly louder than a hiss
the morning rain that rolled in from the South,
on the street and onto the roof of the apartment.

It was early Sunday morning yet,
so much softer of a waking than alarms,
traffic horns,
or neighbor dogs.

The showers were there only as background music,
a gentle reminder that although it was morning,
we had nowhere to go,
save to each other.


And on the air did the raindrops cling,
Half –forgotten, scant remembered, lay they waiting,
For the storm that distant thunder shall bring,
And thirst and crimson fire full sating,

Now fall, that stroke of lightning thus:
Jagged, curved, fiery, pulsating,
Into the earth its mighty trident thrust,
Crater and wildfire creating.

Like fireflies in the distance, now comes the scent,
Vivid and shimmering, oceanic and beautiful -
A stroke of scarlet vermillion over gleaming crescent -
No less than this, nor more beautiful.

And soft its wafting limbs descend,
Upon skin and deadened flesh,
Caressing and caretaking - an angel heaven sent –
The scent of raindrops fresh.

Now one by one they tumble
Down to earth onto the ground,
Little by little, slowly they stumble
Stifling silence with their sound

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