I open the window

and my hairs stand on end.

The clouds hang low

and the tree branches bend.

 

Triumphantly the wind sings;

WHOOSH! comes its longing tune.

This is one of my favorite things,

knowing a storm will come soon.

 

 I lean against the sill,

my palms face the sky.

I stay perfectly still

as the heavens start to cry.

 

First, it's the sound

of the delicate drops that feed

the thirsty, dry ground,

so desperately in need.

 

And I can't help but wonder,

As Noah sat in his ark,

If he did not, amongst the thunder,

come to see the storm's great perk.

 

I'm talking of the clean,

crisp scent of rain-washed air.

It's the smell of all that's green

rejoicing in loud prayer.

 

Now my hands I outstretch,

fingers slightly shaking,

hoping to catch

a second chance in the making.

 

Each cool little drop

splatters softly on my skin,

and will not stop

until it washes away my sin.

 

I know that this was already

done, long  before I was born.

But rain serves to remind me

of the love I've been shown.

 

Rain, put simply, is grace.

It's an undeserved gift

that, in this case,

heals an insuperable rift.

 

The rain helps renew

the aching earth,

just as God makes us new

in our rebirth.

 

I call out to all storms,

or rather, to Him,

and say thanks to the forms

in which he decides to forgive.