The rain
its a lovely lady
shaking her hips.
With a forked tongue full of free
associations or
sexual innuendos.
With
a sense of clarity amid her hazy
sea of droplets or
a sense of charity
to starving farmers,
thirsty animals.

Our lady might come to you quietly
to trace her name in your palm
and trickle away
(like lovers past).

She dies like all of us
some times slowly
others, abruptly;
leaving behind
puddles in which we can see our
own reflections
in the memory of her.
Just like us.
Leaving behind
worms and odors but
sometimes a rainbow.