Rain—the silent poet of the skies. It arrives unannounced, tapping on rooftops and windowpanes. Its language is fluid, a lexicon of whispers and sighs. Listen closely, and you’ll hear its verses—the rhythm of longing, the syntax of renewal.

In the gray hours, when the world wears mist like a shroud, rain writes its first stanza. It paints the streets with liquid memories, washing away footprints and yesterday’s sorrows. Each droplet is a syllable—a soft punctuation in the story of now.

On lonely afternoons, rain composes ballads. It weaves melodies from the pitter-patter on leaves, the staccato on sidewalks. The earth drinks greedily, and the scent rises—a symphony of petrichor. We become characters in this duet, our footsteps harmonizing with the falling notes.

And when evening descends, rain becomes a sonnet. It dances with streetlights, casting shadows that waltz. Lovers huddle under shared umbrellas, their laughter echoing through wet alleys. The city becomes a canvas, inked with reflections—a chiaroscuro of neon and puddles.

But it’s the night, ah, the night when rain reveals its secrets. It murmurs confessions against bedroom windows, tracing lines of vulnerability. We lie cocooned, listening to its lullaby—the patter on rooftops, the whispered promises. It’s as if the universe leans in, whispering, “You’re not alone.”

Rain speaks of beginnings, of cleansing and surrender. It baptizes rooftops, baptizes hearts. We stand on balconies, arms outstretched, and let it anoint us. Our skin remembers—the touch of raindrops, the taste of eternity. We become part of its lexicon—inked with transient verses.

And when morning arrives, rain retreats. It leaves behind dew-kissed petals, glistening cobwebs, and the promise of resurrection. We carry its language within—the syllables of solace, the metaphors of hope. For rain is more than weather; it’s the inkwell of dreams.

So, my friend, next time rain knocks, invite it in. Let it write poems on your skin, compose symphonies in your heart. And remember—the ordinary becomes extraordinary when rain lends its voice.

May your days be filled with the whispered verses of rain, and may you find magic in the ordinary. 🌧️❤️

© Beatriz Esmer