MEMORIES OF RAINS

The memory of rain
Hangs on the air,
Wet and fertile like
Upturned earth filled
With wind tossed seeds
Waiting for the scent
To become something more,
Something wet; a deluge,
A storm, a frenzied feeding
Of thirst and hunger, of life.

The laughter of children,
With shiny lips and
Shinier stomachs flock
Like ducklings, the streams
Glittering with hope and dreams
As the memory of rain becomes life,
Waters the ending drought
And, regurgitated from dust
Traverses old hunting grounds.

Perceive the moist sweetness
Of the rains on the tip
Like a conjugal dance between
Newly weds, naive and innocent.
Taste the sea in the air
Coming with stories and traces
Of distant places where snow
Still melts on mountain passes
And children still skate on frozen seas.
Where red gold dust still swirl
In tango with wind, grass and stones.
Where ravaged monoliths speak
Of the passing of time and of
Older rains and memories of rains.

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I am not much of a fan of the rains. I don't like the wet especially as it makes it difficult to move about if one does not have a car. I enjoy the cold sometimes but it is far better than suffocating heat that characterizes the harmattan season these days.

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_{pixabay: Sasint}

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My poem is a sort of welcome of the rainy season as it starts to water the earth, to prepare it for planting and breeding. The birds are sharper, ghetto colours are brighter and everything seem more alive but I don't really like the season. Good morning.

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©warpedpoetic, 2019.