Rain

These morning raindrops round

The outer skin of my mood;

Send the occasional fractalling thrill

Of cold pleasure shivering down

To my core.

The rain is impersonal,

And yet so familiar. It tugs playfully

At yarns of memories

Of infinite June afternoons in my mother's verandah, and it smells 

Of the summer that is to come. It

Washes away terrestrial concerns

Of my pre-caffeine mind, and

Whispers softly in the echoes of

The drumming on my sill...

Whispers what? Who knows?

It's enough that it whispers.