Curling around the memories of a rainy day!

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Today I will tell you about a short walk that made my poetic mind nostalgic. Personally I like the rainy season the most. The mystic raindrops make my thoughts onward to a celestial pride about my own existence.

I try to feel each raindrop, which ignites a melancholic note in the symphony of solitude. As I live in the countryside and nature has given its abundance without any boundaries. The tin roof sings the rusty ballad of each raindrops, and I feel the harmonizing impact with the falling drops. It's just a matter of feeling the subtle beauty of the presence of it.

My poetic mind sings with the subtle symphony of the rain. As I look at the sky above my head, I see the puddles mirror the gray sky, reflecting a solitary wanderer's footsteps. I wander with the cloud chunks and they simply paint the sky with vivid colors. Sometimes they bring the saddest memory and most of the time the sky mirror shows the subtle happiness the springs through my mind. Rain has the utmost power in my poems that reflects the notion of inner feelings.

As I wander around the county road which is definitely muddy and slippery, but when I glimpse through the just bathed treetops and the leaves by the path I see happiness jostles. The rain-kissed leaves tremble, as if remembering their long gone lost companions. Behind the farmland the old oak stands sentinel, its gnarled branches seem like catching tears from heaven.

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The riverside view is nothing to compare with. The mystic small river swells, carrying memories downstream, toward forgotten shores. And the rain gives a honey-like symphony to the rhythmic eternal flow.
In the barn's dim light, hay bales absorb rain, releasing their sweet fragrance.

Sometimes, I dream of a pastoral painter who paints the dream filled with rain. Nostalgia drips from eaves, pooling in the hollows of time-worn fences. The painter shadows all the expected pain through his brave and vivid brush strokes.

I can tell you about a one crow that Ted Hughes often wrote about. I see his every now and then The lonely scarecrow stands, arms outstretched, embracing the downpour. The lash greenery of crop fields bathes with the enchanting music of rustic rain. Raindrops trace ancient runes on moss-covered stones. The old temple also gives a mythical look of the surroundings.

All at once I feel some distant train whistle weaves through rain, just like a lonesome melody. If I look through the ground I see, the wet earth clings to worn boots, grounding the restless heart.

You can also see someone holding an umbrella will make you feel like tattered umbrella shelters memories, its fabric frayed by time.
The distant farmhouse window frames a blurred landscape—a watercolor of longing.

However, amidst this abundance of beauty my poet mind couldn’t stop me crafting some verses. Here are those....

Tracing the contours
of a weathered face,
etching stories into wrinkles;
each raindrops tells the story!
The story of a cat
that seeks shelter
under the porch,
tail curled around memories
of sunnier days.

Tapping on the roof,
spelling out forgotten names
in Morse code; each raindrops tells
the story of the lone fox;
that seeks shelter beneath
a dripping cedar,
eyes reflecting twilight.

&Raindrops tap on the pages
of forgotten diaries, where
ink bleeding into confession.
In the quiet aftermath,
the country rain weaves memories
into the fabric of existence!*

With💙
©chrysanthemum