memories rain upon a tin roof so gentle at first almost soothing but as night hours linger dark clouds begin to gather and the rain pours down harder than when they were not memories somehow returning pain is stronger than its first moments were we not taught that time heals all but apparently not the pain of memories in the night
we have for all too long avoided the rain ah but when we were young as coatless hunters we pursued the fairies that danced upon the pools here and there as they scurried between raindrops never getting wet a feat which we were certain we could master with enough practice but those days gave way to being responsible and wearing the proper attire when it rains refraining from beliefs in fairies and mastering magic skills how sad such narrow thinking can become engrained in our lives but it’s raining now won’t you come with me and dance between the raindrops
an evening thunderstorm caught me without my rain gear and the brown bag prophet caught me before reaching my car door offering shelter beneath his beach umbrella he said i was just thinking about this woman i knew lord she was fine but we lost touch that made me begin to hate the fact that i cannot go back in time and change a few things people i should’ve said i love you to and others something less accepting but i realize i cannot go back so i’ve also begun to realize that each moment of the day is precious he waited for me to open the car door and i and my impatience felt rewarded
a burst of cold air mingles with spring rain sending chills down spines of overeager campers campers pitching tents along the riverbank in hopes of finding lost treasures but discovering only plastic bottles without pirate maps or messages from long-lost lovers nor was there found ancient arrowheads from long vanquished tribes known by all school children to have dined upon a fare of human veal but fearlessly these pilgrims of adventure prepared their meal of can beans and over-processed hotdogs sharing their culinary delights along with ghost-story desserts falling soundly asleep until the coyotes reminded them of where they were
when the rains come construction dust will be washed from these city streets old motor oil will be washed out to sea when the rain comes and the sidewalk stains from a drive-by shooting of a child will join the river of tears that could not wash a mother’s pain away when the rains come
