feel it on my fingertips
I like the sound of the rain. Its soft comfort, reassuring non-presence, unsteady companion to the perfect mood of cosy hiding. The rain on the window has a ready charm, an emotion memory of the familiar the repetitive the known. I like the feel of the rain on my face, dampening my hair, cooling the skin, trickling down my cleavage pooling and soaking the adventurous allowance of the child in adult of getting wet for no good reason. I love the rain as it builds its torrent, harder and harder and harder and harder, the back splash raising angels from the ground fairies dancing in the dirty puddling of their own destroyed bodies. The sharpness of parched concrete, thirsty earth, the clichéd smell of the freshness of new rain on starved land it enlivens it rejuvenates, the super sniffing filling the lungs with its aroma of relief and new. Drizzle, drenching as soon as it hits, a facial of sorts, frizz hair and clean skin. Warm summer drops falling splat on the head bullets of respite offerings from the relentless. Cold driving winter rain, savage made by biting winds cutting making chattering teeth removing breath awakening and arousing.
Ah. I love the rain. The gloomy skies promising teasing wind rushing greyness foreboding or darkly enticing. The rain. Its soft comfort, reassuring non-presence, unsteady companion to the perfect mood of cosy hiding. The rain. Harder and harder and harder and harder. The wonderful rain. New rain on starved land it enlivens it rejuvenates. Soaking wet rain drenching splashing watering rain rainy raining.
I so wish it would rain.
(copyright corinna tomrley 2005)