There will come soft Rains.....
The rains had bathed the earth only the night before, and the relief was etched out in the deep blue of the skies and the shimmering leaves of the rubber plant that sighed with pleasure in the stillness of the night. She looked out of her small narrow veranda, imagining herself like a swallow, spreading her wings and soaring in the mysterious night sky in search of the unknown. Her skirt was drenched in the pitter patter of the last rain drops, trying to draw her out of the narrow confines of her veranda; to entice her into the mystical communion.
Looking back, she tried to remember all the hurts and the humiliations, she had suffered over the last week; the last month; the last year. Nothing came to mind, all memories a hazy blur, fused into a single whole.
As a streak of lightening pierced the indigo night, she tasted the bitter gall of another rainy evening. That evening, when the romance of the monsoon was lost in their bitter altercations; when all arguments had reached a crescendo of betrayal and accusations. That evening the rains had lingered in her dissolving tears; the thunder, echoing his harshly drawn breath.
She tried to catch the drops that were rushing into her veranda mischievously. The rains were soaking into her very being, making her shiver with untold promises. Images danced in memory; nothing tangible. She tried to wave them away; the welcoming deluge was dissolving old anguish and acrimonies.
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white;
Robins will wear their feathery fire,
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,
If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn
Would scarcely know that we were gone.
-- Sara Teasdale