Cleansed by the rains

Bring the rain. Bring the rain. Warm rain. Pitter patter rain. Rain dancing on rooftops — wooden, steel, tin. Dripping, pounding, tap-dancing rain. It is faint and quiet. It is heavy and loud. It is purely and wholly powerful. It is out of our control. Rain happens to us. Rain does what it pleases. It decides. It has broad shoulders and strong arms. It has lovely long hair and dainty wrists. It wears boots, it wears silk slippers. It fills our senses — we see, hear, taste, feel and smell the rain. Rain is strong and rain is gentle. Rain is an empty church or temple. Rain is a choir filling the pews. Rain is a prayer; it quiets me, makes me think, makes me wonder, lets me absolve myself and washes me like it washes the streets, the cars, the trees, the grasses and the houses. It wrings out my soul and sets it aright. Rain wears the stole and gives the benediction. Rain picks me up, carries me to my room, and kisses me softly for hours. Rain shuts my eyes. Rain opens them.