Poem: Spring Rain

Spring rain arrives without a drum,
only the soft rehearsal of drops
touching leaf, pavement, sleeve.

I walk beneath a sky
the color of quiet pewter,
while the trees practice
their newest shade of green.

Puddles gather small galaxies
on the sidewalk—
each step sending rings
through temporary worlds.

The air smells like beginnings:
wet soil, waking roots,
the slow courage of flowers
pushing through yesterday.

My jacket darkens with rain,
but the cold is gentle,
like a hand on the shoulder
guiding winter away.

And somewhere in the branches
a bird keeps singing,
as if the rain itself
is something worth celebrating.

Thank-you for reading,

Brenda Marie