Under my umbrella,

I watch the clear drops descend.

They hurl, abiding gravity,

As they run, far away,

From the hands of the sky.

It makes sense for the clouds to darken,

To yowl in pain,

And to jolt fear across the land.

Though the strikes echo and blind,

The drops plummet,

With no care or remorse.

Is it death they approach,

Or is it the hope of freedom,

From their oppressors?

I see one drop in particular,

And grimace as it splats,

On the cold, drab ground.

I witness the others do the same,

Fall, land, splat.

I ponder, “What’s the point of this?”

But, more and more hit the ground.

Some on the lamp,

Some on the bench,

Some on the road,

Some on the garden,

And some on me.

Finally, I see the clouds go.

They turn and walk away,

Leaving the sky blank,

Like the canvas of an artist.

The world’s back to normal,

As people open their doors to take a stroll.

Cars rush past the puddles,

And send trails of water into the gutter.

They’ll be forgotten.

I stay with my umbrella,

Who has protected me,

And sacrificed its skin.

I notice how alive the trees are,

How green the grass is,

And how vibrant the flowers are.

Maybe it was worth it after all,

To experience such a massacre,

But breathe life into others.

The earthy scent wafts and reaches my nose,

It’s distinct and recognizable.

While others complain,

And others embrace it,

I know what the smell is.

It’s rain.