Evening Rain

The dread of the ultimate end becomes forgotten memory through the smell of blooming flowers and thankful soil after the rain

Thank You!

“Memory or fantasy…”

I hate the sound of evening rain,
for the way it tingles hairs within my ears,
I hear it speak,
reminding of the changing weather,
season, time.

Like a wooden cane,
it will add some style
and will help you walk a mile,
but earthly root
between the fingers
of the trembling old hand,
will ultimately inscribe
and leave a mark,
a sign of the approaching
jump into the unknown.

I love the smell of blooming petrichor
early in the morning,
greeting me
and waking up
bringing back alive,
sometimes flabbergasted
not sure of what I saw.

Memory or fantasy,
questioning my sanity,
but quickly taken back,
back on track,
by the sense of renewal,
felt between the creatures and the skies.

Hopefully it wouldn’t rain in the morning at least.

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