This is not the rain


This is not the rain.
This is not the rain that I knew before.
This is not that warm wet shower from the skys of
scattered white clouds.
It is not the salty clear waters that dappled my freckled
face like tears.
This is not that rain.
This rain falls coldly on a noisy land, on dead fallen
leaves of unnatural color.
It clogs the drains and turns the ground black with a
stain so dark no light returns.
This rain is not that rain I know, it comes from another
land and another time.
Not my time. Not any time that I can foresee or recall.
Not my land, not the land where I was born, the land I
learned to touch or the land I can see in my minds eye.
Yet this thing called rain continues.
It is endless and for days.
It is bitter and darkening.
But this is not the rain.