Marylou Mansfield

Rain dances in the street
celebrating its liberation
from burdened clouds.

I should dance, too.
Why hide under cover,
shrouded and hidden?

Some see the rain
as tears from heaven
wrung from loved ones now passed.

I welcome the choreography
sequenced to the comfort of rhythmic patters
on my window panes.

In the wake of restorative waters,
my mind and body slow in action
allowing creativity to bubble.

I see words waltzing in the smattering,
twisting in the wind,
enjoying the tango of early spring deluge.

The rain cleanses my home and hearth,
runs off deck and shutters
streaking the windows.

I try to capture each droplet,
bottle it,
spill it on paper,
anticipating the translations meant for me.