I have always loved rainy days...
but now, it seems like with most things in life
there is a price to pay
for the simple pleasure of a rainy day
As the rain approaches
the air shifts and swirls
the atmosphere and
the barometric pressure are rapidly changing
and the climate inside my head
is dancing, foggy and like a thunderbolt
about to knock me over
I know that I will have to take my migraine meds
it's all the other little tiny tolls
when added together
total quite a tidy sum
My bones wine and whimper
then screech and moan
My eyes pulse and throb
I don't want to leave them open
I'm not very sociable
and I start poking around
deep deep inside myself
trying urgently, recklessly
to solve all the puzzles
of my life, salve the wounds
sort out the child
I don't know if it's the medicine
or the companionship of the rain
it just happens...
It's nothing like the "mud-luscious"
"puddle-wonderful" world e.e. cummings describes
So with one eye half closed
tucked under a bag of ice
I stare out the window
putting all the energy of the painter
and the poet inside me to work
The gray sky is translucent
shimmering like a pearl...
When the rain begins to fall again
it makes a light tapping sound...
Is someone trying to send me a message?
Then the pace picks up
wrapping my window
in a curtain of thick crystal rope...
"Spells are being cast," I think...
I lean back against my pillow
feeling all the potent magic
I remember about rainy days
wrapping around me like a shawl