Drops and splashes, flies and spits. Then clings exquisite to the solid, running itself down to the ground just to feel what its up against and to know how it feels and how it feels. It gathers. Whenever it meets another droplet they cling and become one. Inviting each other into the arms of water’s tensioned surface. Holding together, after the free fall from the heavy and wet clouds; turning the wild blue to a grey and tear filled face. The inevitable return from the ocean’s rhythmic escape to the sky.
One drop at a time can end in a flood, start a river, or linger in puddles and rock pools. The safe little craters on the edge where crabs, in their sideways dance, move the sand and seaweed like zen gardens.
Gardens wait for their becoming to come from rain’s tickle. A drop to the soil, to the seed is a watery kick to sprout. Then drawn through the root to the cells, clasped by walls, the droplet’s force shapes the plant.
Forced to fall the falling force makes rain round and gripped in on itself. It’s fluidity becomes strong as it dives daringly and risks dismemberment. Even apart it’ll end in beads and draw together again as dew on leaves where the green and veins are translated subjectively by its prism.
What a prison it would be if the rain never fell. Dancing thanks monsoons after a dry spell. Fine mist bejewels the tips of eyelashes. The cold harsh rain of winters lend a calm by hurrying all into the dry and warm of home. What a prison it would be if all that water stayed stuck up there, hovering above our heads, hiding the light by its mood — stuck like an urgent unsounded sigh, unable to be free, unable to cry.