Each time the rain spills from the sky
I seek the drops that shine
With an image that reflects
Some blossom, tree or vine.
I get so caught up in the quest
I sometimes don’t recall
Those reflections are really not
Rain’s purpose after all.
The new leaf on the spreading branch,
The blossom, frail and sweet,
The new fruit waiting to be born,
The thirsty, growing wheat,
The rain to them is everything,
More precious still, indeed,
Than a reflected image caught
Upon a bloom or weed.
Those reflections mean so much,
Reminding me of you,
But, sometimes rain drops are just rain…
And that’s a good thing, too.
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