The Language of Rain

It started softly this morning —

the kind of rain that doesn’t demand,

just invites.

A drizzle so light it felt like breath

threading through the trees,

like the earth exhaling before it remembers

what it’s carrying.

I listened to the language —

the way rain speaks as it touches wood, 

leaf, glass, tin roofs... skin.

Each note a different word.

And now it’s colder,

damp, the kind of weather that sends you 

inward — to tea and pages,

to blankets and memory.

Not all rain howls. Not all rain stays.

Some speak and soften —

then slip away.

With Grace & Ink,

Mai