Rain drops on the roof, splatter against the window, leaking through the cracks, puddling on the floor.
It’s the season of rain.
Laundry day indoors, clothes stream across open rooms, over empty chairs, under stairs. Many little hands find fun from falling garments. But at least they’re dry.
It’s the season of rain.
Green. It’s everywhere. Neighbors plant flowers, fruit, and forgetfulness. No one recalls the killing frost from a month ago. The six dry months are gone, lost to time. Given hope, they sow.
It’s the season of rain.
Day after day, week upon week, for months–rain, mud, wet, everywhere. Lightning blinks and bangs, shaking the house, cutting off the lights.
It’s the season of rain.
Clouds break. The sun bursts through with a rainbow on his arm. Birds sing with the frogs and dance with the worms. Little creatures skip through the fields, splashing through puddles for the first time.
It’s the season of rain.
Juan David 