it rains this soft featherly light rain that we could choose to ignore . a rain that takes time to paint the sidewalks wet . a rain that thinks about where it’s going and how it’s going to get there. it says there is no other time and place than here and now. a rain that lets the rest of the world fight over money and blame. it tells me it’s okay to hide out for days at a time, to actively ignore the rest of the needs other than solitude. it tells my windows to sit pixilated and the trees to hang their leaves heavy. if it whispered it would whisper. I try not to think too much about anything in particular. I let notions and ideas, even feelings and smells, come and go like a good high tide. at the end of the day the few that pool on the sidewalks outside my apartment, I pick up gently and carry inside, place them on the mantle and write about them the next morning. sometimes I forget that I am here and you are there, and I assume you are watching the same rain as I am.
Published by Erin Rose Belair
I am multi-genre writer specializing in travel, ad-copy, and nonfiction prose. A recent graduate with my MFA I am spending my new found time rambling around the world, practicing yoga, and searching for the best salad ever. View all posts by Erin Rose Belair