“I won’t go outside—it’s raining,” she said.
Hmm. It’s just water, falling on your head.
Water—source of life—we all began in it.
And without it, don’t doubt it,
our ends would be writ.
When the air’s not too cold (it never is here),
I walk in the rain, forget pain,
and breathe air fresh and clear.
I hike on a path, to see the steel gray-blue bay,
watch seabirds and storm clouds and go on my way.
The bright fuchsia flowers don’t mind the rain,
and daffodils and paintbrushes would say the same.
The hills now glow green and the trees are quite glad,
and when the fall comes, you might well be sad.
When the rain stays away, trees burn and crops die.
Smoke chokes our breath, and tears sting our eyes.
We will pray for the rain, and see our doom coming nigh.
We should dance in the rain, for in the drought that is coming
we will fear for our lives, the apocalypse looming.
Living in California you appreciate rain. I am puzzled when people here complain. I mean it's like tropical drizzles, not like the drenching cold downpours I experienced in New York before global warming.