What a sad comfort I find in the sound of the rain, not when it hits the window “of pain”
but the secret whisper it hisses when it evaporates, knowing it will be back again. 

As a child I often felt like the rain.....but not life giving torrential rain., the rain that never fell enough to quench the thirst of the dying plants. 

How could that feeling manifest itself in me when I was born of a hurricane? 

It occurred to me, that the soil which one fertilized and held strong the roots of what once were bountiful and beautiful plants had become too malnourished, too dry to absorb the gift of (me) the rain. 

My soul was open and it’s wet bounty poured out over the pitiful, prideful cracked leaves of the plants, and my spirit traced down the spines to the tangled, parched roots but was received as nothing more than a worthless drizzle. 

My spirit though, was set free by the residual dew of bounty my soul left behind......my spirit....Spared by the insidiousness of the evaporated rain. 

Would the soil responsible for nourishing the plants ever have mercy on the roots it held together? 
Would the roots ever have empathy for the plant to whom it gave strength? 
Would the plants ever take pride in its leaves and put them on proper display? 

Would the leaves finally cry out in pain to the tortured drops of (me) the rain begging, “please precious one, come to us again?”

Would the pariah rain (me) then fall down in a million drops upon the plants and finally hear the roots cry out, 
“Thank God for the prodigal rain.......”

“As you grow older, you will discover that you have two hands, one for helping yourself, the other for helping others.”