The Rain That Remembers

The Past is Never Truly Gone.

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April comes calling with wet hands,

Palms pressed on roofs, fingers swiping windows-

A ghost tapping, tapping.

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The sky cries, though not for flowers.

Not for what stirs within the soil.

It sobs for the old tales buried,

The names lost in her flash floods,

For the echoes that rise with gurgling gutters.

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You think Spring has come

You herald Renewal’s arrival.

But the rain remembers.

She brings with her old voices, softens their sound,

Pushing them into parched roots,

Cajoling them into new blooms.

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Walk outside.

Touch your skin, feel the cold.

April showers yield May’s flowers—

They will surely come.

But the Past lingers in each.

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Do you want Her to stay?

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Also, check out other books on Amazon! Today’s book is Under the Horn of Hearth:Northland Frail by S.P. Rowe