April Showers

It's supposed to rain all of today, and I'm stuck inside, so I figured now might be a good time to post this "poem" (flash fiction? flash flood?) that I wrote a while ago.

I don't usually post my poetry, because I write these mostly for myself, but here's a glimpse, I guess.

Of course, this one isn't actually about the rain -- but I do feel way more comfortable writing about the weather than anything else this may be about, so here you go. I'll stop stalling now.


A day in late summer.

You awaken one morning and it's in the air. The smell of anticipation. An overwhelming sensation of tension.

It's in the air. Not rain, but the hint of rain. Not a storm, but the shadow of a storm. You step outside and feel it on your skin.

And you brace yourself for the inevitable, the torrential.

The downpour.

As if God himself had flipped a switch and opened the gates. An instantaneous, miraculous change. A refreshing change. And a flood of everything you didn't know you wanted.

You stand there, getting drenched, revelling in the power of the staccato beats, getting your fill, until you're dripping in it. The water rubs away any past dirt still clinging to your skin.

A small voice way in the back is shouting at you, about ruining your clothes, about catching a cold. But in the moment, that voice gives way to the excitement, the thrill, the flashes of lightning, the crashes of thunder

You're afraid to move -- afraid that one wrong move would make it all stop. Weather is finicky in that way, you say. So you stand there, paralyzed, wondering how long until this, too, comes to an end.


And the rain stops. The clouds part, the sun reveals itself, and fresh, cool rain makes way for suffocating humidity.

For the storm is gone, as quickly as it came, but a lingering taste remains of what used to be.

The wet, sticky air clings to your skin, not letting go. Unable to let go. Refusing to let go.

The dampness hangs there, static and unyielding, and you stand just as still as before. You ask out loud, "Where do I go now?"

But the only response is the sound of water droplets dripping off your shirt.