In the hearth of your tempestuous bluster,
there is love and there is anger.
You sweep my showers off the ground,
pull them into your own windswept skies.

My dewdrop deluge is gentle,
serene in the wake of your passionate precipitation.
Like mother nature paints orange the first leaf of fall,
tender watercolor touch, our seasons change together.

Your gale is merciful in its burn,
my raindrops burn against your touch.
You turn me into something wonderful,
I am no longer raindrops—I am liquid sunshine.

My dear, suns live their longest eons.
Each is smaller than your blazing moment.
A storm can burn for eons before the lightning strikes—
and the rain falls soft the entire time.

When you stir and leave, I am still here.
Droplets lonely on blades of grass, I wait for you.
Even your timelessness is not timeless enough—
I miss the simmer of your ardor-flushed inferno.

In time there is growth and comfort.
my own rainstorms brew softer than yours,
but there is love in the fingertips of time,
and nobody—not even you—has such gentle hands.