I could write a poem about rain everyday for the rest of my life. That is how much I enjoy rain.
Sometimes frightening and other times friendly, rain is one of my favorite expressions the weather shows. It’s why I enjoy April. It is why I wait with patient anticipation for Spring; I don’t want the promise of rain to be fulfilled so soon. I was inspired by these images from Quazi Motto on Wax‘s “Pray for Rain” set, to write about rain. There’s a thousand different elements about rain, like recognizing the aroma of an approaching storm, or picturing the shape of raindrops not like teardrops, but as a flattened oval due to air resistance as they travel. Going back and forth on what topic to use these captures for, I decided to try my hand at something you might call poetry.
When the sky rained tonight, you peered at me through the window from your kitchen.
Looming clouds unseen against the deep amaranthine of a 9:36pm sky,
giving no notice of its imminent landing,
the stirring of a storm was not heard when it arrived from miles away.
You called out to me, “what are you doing?” What does it look like, I replied. I’m dancing.
Cornered by the storm, accepting no defeat by the downpour that continued to follow me,
it began tapping me on my head, creeping up on and over my shoulders,
laying itself prostrate with mock reverence at my feet;
I tried to wash over the rain, like the rain was washing over me.
I became dizzy in equal amounts of resolve and glee,
like this rain, I reached into every crevice and corner I could find;
stampeding through grass,
then leaping onto pavement,
darting back to streets,
stirring up cyclones of stormwater, natural debris and speed,
anything in contact with the twirl of my feet,
copycatting the amorosity of water mixed with air,
taking no prisoners with me,
rushing myself along, defying any feeling of retreat.
Vision blurred, I saw the black limbs of trees displaying grand flourishes,
mimicking the Bharata Natyam, the measured ‘da-na-na-na’ of their extension.
The rhythmic sound to follow was a red zephyr,
the instrument that cajoled their venerate mastery.
Blood-rivers like rapids, pumping in my chest when hearing:
the swooshing sounds of immediacy and imagined danger of that red zephyr,
failed to stop me from running towards you, to be in your view.
I stopped and stood there.
Palms opening, eyelids closing, torso bending, arms extending,
the hair on my head began to shrivel, my mind unfurled and collapsed in relief.
And you watched me from that window, when it rained tonight.
Adjoa is a Minneapolis-based community advocate and independent writer with an affinity for livable urban patches. Her favorite place in the world is the public library where you’ll have no trouble finding her, no matter what city she travels to. Her blog and project Inspire Your Environment (IYE) – born out of a year and a half living stint in the city of Tampa – marries sustainability and urbanism through the perspective of multiculturalism and youth-oriented outreach. She gets happy over Twitter, so follow her: @SutotaDakota