Raindrops, not tears,
blur my vision –
the line of trees before me
a glistening blur.
The pounding in my temples
is just the steady rhythm
of watery drip, drip, drip,
not the incessant roar
of my blood pounding –
discordant is this day.
I wrote this piece while stranded in Mississippi, with eighteen hours of driving still ahead of us, and no idea when we might resume our trip. The car had been towed to the shop and the RV mechanic had not yet shown up. Rain began pummelling down early in the morning, and showed no sign of letting up.
As we all know, rain does stop, and circumstances change, and so, hopefully, by the time you read this, I am safe and dry in our home, the incidence all but forgotten.
April is, according to lore, the month of showers, washing away the old and watering the new.
What does rain mean to you? Show me in photographs, tell me in poems or prose, or any other creative means of expression.
Look forward to your responses.
Unsure how to proceed? Just drop me a line below.