Poetry- Evening Rain by Mihaela Vasileva

When the first rain hits in mid-April,

My soul prepares itself not for

powerful tempests,

But rather for pure delight.

Mother taught that rain was love.

The first drop that falls upon the

skin is noticed,

Or sometimes ignored.

But soon,

Many more drops fall from the sky,

Marking the streets and cleaning

residue from winter's work.

The flowers sing when the sweet water

courses their roots,

Their leaves, being tickled by the

brisk droplets,

Laugh.

We run for shelter in the rain,

We want to stay dry, out minds left in

the clear and the comforting.

I've always been fond of love.

Rarely does it take the form of

anything I understand.

I desire it to be predictable, to be

planned.

But it rains when it rains.

And, on an evening such as this,

Who could say no?