The rain is blue, clear, gothic karma peddling the scent of a crisp
apple and the musky oil of moss and leaves and soil. If lightning
strikes, the air is a fresh silo of berries and courtship. Rain
is the weather for children: black, white, brown—jeweled. Youth
runs amok and smashes puddles as the expanse of a rainy day instructs
the earth, making fresh a human's faith in music. Distant thunder and butterfly
wings lay claim to glitter, so that we might float beyond clamor and squalor
to a community that is the stamp of gossamer bliss on earth. The rain is blue,
clear, gothic karma pedaling the scent of a crisp apple and the musky oil of moss
and leaves and soil. Adulthood can't find clever corners, a brief nap, a hoodless
rickshaw in the rain; we carry umbrellas, raincoats, and caution. At rain's break,
we spill away into our days, covered with bone etchings that spin our time and pull
our skin through the decades, tug our souls toward the centuries. Revel as rain
descends on our hair and many faces to cleanse the hurt that petrichor swallows.