Seattle Rain

Soccer nets sway gently
in the wind and rain
that slips a cool shiver
down the collar
of your jacket
and tickles your back.

Scents of crushed rose and
turned earth sit heavy
in the wet air
And the moon mourns,
leaking a pale white regret
over a black field.

Oh, the little things—
the memories;

The trees are barren—a fall storm—
A Seattle rain.

A broad oak,
With its roots
knotted and gnarled—
36 and a half little hands around—
aflame in October.

Smooth grey pebbles between
your toes and
a slight clacking
as waves push stones
against ashen driftwood.

As you think,
the rain falls,
and the memories start
to dampen—
dripping out;
Each small memory
an indigo swirl
encased in a raindrop.

Everything falls,
And your mind is left blank—
A white room
with curved walls veined
with fiery ruby.
Empty.
Only the hiss of the
rain and wet tires
through the trees—
and the darkness.

So, you fill
your lungs
and taste the rain
on your tongue,
and you just smile.