Truth be told, rain is the only entity
qualified to judge what should become
of any entity, including itself, who breaks the law.

On a lighter note, rain is responsible 
for the existence of the hat.
Boots too: because sans rains, no muds.

I am reminded of the rain
whenever it rains; and even 
when it doesn’t, even then.

It falls or drops in loops,
making it the only language
borne not of thought but of forgetfulness.

Can you remember where you were
the first time it rained everywhere?
No, well neither can it.

How about that time it poured on one side 
of the street and not the other? 
Did you dream that? Yes and No.

Would you describe the sound of rain
as an interminable whoosh enmeshed
within a mishmash of reassuring threats?

Because the rain wavers, like a dreamer,
between loneliness and celebrity;
should you hold it to your heart or ridicule it?

When it finally stops, no one tells the rain
it has stopped, so it thinks it is still falling,
and even when the sunlight delivers its gospel,

the rain continues to believe it continues (and so it does).

*this is fifth and final in a five-day series of poems The Opiate is publishing by Connolly Ryan. Read Day 1 here, Day 2 here, Day 3 here & Day 4 here.