There is nothing new to say about rain.
It has already been likened to tears,
or a cover for some secret grief;
the sky has long been assigned
the austere shade of gun metal;
clouds have always cast shadows
like roving puddles of darkness.
There have also been rumors
that every bead holds a universe,
or someone might maneuver
between drops and not get wet.
But sometimes, rain is just rain,
water exploding into elements
that rendezvous in a new place
and fall upon another exile,
a poet without the language
to calm the storm in his heart.
