The Rain Poem by Andrew David Dalby

I love the near silent sound of rain;
Its delicate intricacy overwhelms.
Yet it never tickles, as it trickles,
Forever failing to touch my -near parted- lips,
That rest, warm, plump and heavy;
Close to the cold crystal of the window pane.

I love the radiant light of rain;
I love its fracturing geometry.
For it glimmers, as it glisten's,
Kaleidoscopically slicing in heavy pulsing throws,
To build within, the image of a liquid train
That rails to free my quake-ridden mind
From the sad, the empty and the mundane.

I love the frosted benumbing touch of rain;
I love its clear sharpened ability.
For it reverberates, as it replicates,
In perfect symmetry,
With torrid, vibrant ice bone finger's
That caresses the twisted depths that rest,
As yet unburdened from my heaving breast.

I love the fragrant recollection the rain;
Its rounded scent is rich in pre-possessing.
Recalling images of desires needy entwine,
Around -and upon- that heavy purple vine,
And then -once sated- simply sigh,
To finally and so very snugly rest,
To warmly feel you upon my chest
Amongst the gentle pattering;
That echoes from this thundering sky.
Oh how I wish to God that you were mine.