The rain slides down the window,
A surface on which water may cling, perhaps,
But gravity dictates that water must go down.
For water has no true foothold.
So, the rain slides,
Quickly or slowly,
Without sense or control.
But to memory I must commit that,
However strong the thunderstorm,
However light the sprinkling rains,
All water contributes to my gardens.
The gardens of which are symbolic,
For rain fosters growth, not only destruction.
I look upon my temporary despair,
And I drag myself through the muck,
Through the mud,
Eventually, to see my grass and flowers grow.
Upon my face belies a smile,
As each pelting rain that drips down the window
Only contributes to my garden.
The smell of flowers delights me so.