Pitter-patter, drip and drop, dotting the glass with smeared tears.
The sky is a charcoal gray with darker shades hoisting it up
And zigzagged bolts that slash through them here.
I’ve never understood completely why the rain is a positive symbol,
I suppose for those inside it is, a soundtrack to their reading,
A soundtrack to their snuggles under crumbled sheets.
An absentminded view to bring peace from the steady hums and distant rumbles.
But to those outside, it is a number of the opposite.
A siren of warning to make it home, to throw themselves under a refuge.
Or it is a hindrance, a complete obstacle for those with nowhere to be.
An atmosphere of danger, with white hot flashes and crushing booms,
Fearful spikes that shoot up the spines of every organism.
I see the awe that manifests on a small girl’s face, her nose smudged
Against the window, eyes widening with each dance of light and cymbal crash.
It is a thrilling fright; she retreats quickly only to push back up again to watch.
I see the worried surprise of a biker down the lane,
he must steer faster
To beat the growing torrents.
I see the shivered fear of a homeless woman, searching
frantically for a store veranda she can sneak under—
but she is not close enough to
make it before the downfall hardens.
We often feel comfort from it, but only when we are sheltered from it—
on the inside looking out.