Rain April 10th

I know I should be going. I promised myself I would go to work early. Then, it started raining. The morning still dark, another cup of coffee, another few minutes to enjoy the rain gently licking against the window panes of my small place.

My room is lit with a few lamps; light hovering in dark pockets of the room creating an even cozier ambience. I could stay in this spot all day and write. Stephen King does most of his writing in a small corner of the attic in his New England Home. He says having no distractions is a way to focus. I would have to add a window or two, Steve. Viewing the tree branches outside a window and on days like this, seeing the effects of the rain would be a added dimension to my writing, not a distraction. 

What is it about rain and being indoors that feels so comforting? What is so appealing about this visceral experience? Does it still us in such away that the desire to stay inside also is a desire to go inside ourselves? 

Do we want to climb back into the womb and feel the comfort of being surrounded by water and darkness? Is it primal or learned or just appealing because of the auditory sounds of liquid drops splashing up against the outside of our domains?

For me, it feels like a beautiful place to go inward. I almost want to make it a spiritual experience, a cleansing of the crooks and crannies of thoughts and stress and worries I haven’t taken the time to sweep out. I feel the calmness of rain fill me up.

It always feels like a gift.

Here is a gift for you DS. Happy Birthday. I hope the weather doesn’t dampen your special day!


 It washes my soul

Cleanses my brain from

Any thought  that steals

My peace.


 I love the sound of it,

Softly falling on the street

Outside my window,

Small crystals tinkling

As they crash.

 Butter drops on the leaves of  bushes;

Fat round drops that

Shine the waxy broad leaf bright.


 Drops so soft they 

Feel like velvet and

Cushion a deep part of

My fractured day.

 These fairy drops

Replenish the earth

With dewy moistness

While we sleep,

And only a trace of

Their steps

Does  morning show:

 Damp earth,

Spotted ground,

And fog rising up

As melted rain.


 I shade my hand to splitting sun

driving way The clouds,

And pray the bolts

Of cotton gray will tumble

yet again

And wash some peace my way.                 


Vikki Yeary  January 5, 1997


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