Gently on my window sill
Tiny pellets sound their voices
Telling me the clouds are weeping,
Giving up their provender.
Nestled soundly in my chair
I hark and happily rejoice in
The cycle of life-giving rain
Those fleeting melodies infer.
In the distance, faint but growing,
Rolls on rolls of thunder grumble.
Praying that the storm clouds slacken,
Feeling frayed and slightly humble.
But the rain, my fervent friend,
Speaks with unrelenting ease,
Seeking shallows to be filled
To nourish flowers, fields and trees.
In the grand scheme, in the end,
There is really nothing like the sound
Of the tender murmuring of
Sleepy rain coming down.
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