The thing about rain is that
it continues dripping for an
unknown amount of time.
Or how perfect it sounds in a pond,
tiny silver trinkets and bubbles
rippling the tree limbs’ mirrors;
I thought the birds would never answer
a gray rainy scenery, but their wing
feathers purr along in the downfall.
So, be like the rain.
And rain in May as you must,
and rain until the sun feels warm again.
But the thing about rain is that
it stops. And not when, but
why: the rain gladly finds a treasure.