Walking home in the rain

I love how the rain makes everything look washed over with a faded gray tone.

The rain makes everything look long-lost and long forgotten.

I love the way the clouds block the sun and make everything dark,

and how the rain drenches everything and makes it darker.

I love the scattered red maple leaves drifting from their ashen perches,

whispering across the puddles and tumbling through the flooded storm drain into the overflowing gutter.

I love the sound of the drops peppering my umbrella, and the splash of my foot in the deep puddles.

I love the feeling of the past it casts upon everything.

It makes you think back to the baby blue days of being young.

Now my socks are damp and I’m shivering in the cold.

The wind whips my long strings of wet hair at my face.

It blows my umbrella back and forth, turning it inside out until I bend it back again.

Still, I love the rain.

As I trudge through the familiar pile of bright yellow leaves shaped like fans, I know that I am approaching my warm home.

The walls here envelop you, surrounding you with warmth, as smooth as silk, as smooth as honey.

The carpets here are a part of you, the windows keep out the cold.

I love the rain.

But now I am content to step inside, to kick of my soaked shoes and socks and pull of my wet sweatshirt.

Now I am content to sit down inside, surrounded by the things I love the most (my dog my cat my computer my family).

I curl up my feet below me, and I write this poem.

Outside, the rain comes down harder.

I smile.

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