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The God of Rain
 
Text Box: to roam everywhere and bend the ear of the nearest listener. These words are meant for the Sun letting him know that soon his time will be over, and his brother will soon roam the earth to cast his half smile tonight. The Sun heeds the words of The Rain God as we slowly pass him, temporarily dimming his light. At that instant, as his light is hidden for a brief moment, billions of eyes lift their eyes to sky and their singular thought is all the same, ’looks like rain’ but the thought quickly evaporates as the Sun makes a sudden re-appearance for his captive audience. He has always been like this, demanding attention even when his day is over. He often reminds me of a child who’s grown tired from the day’s events, and sleep haunts his every step, but he fights it to the death for fear of missing something exciting. The Moon is always late because of this behavior, and that’s why he sometimes can’t be found until darkness covers the earth and his light can shine unobstructed. The God of Rain has made the final preparations, and rain unlike anything ma Text Box: has ever seen will flood the earth with the tears of its maker. Rain like this comes every so often, and its only mission as told to it by The God of Rain is to scour the earth to find all that is dying because of hopelessness, sickness and a belief that they’ve been forgotten. Wherever these souls might dwell, they are to be washed anew, and the light that was once diminished once again will burn bright. The clouds now speak their common song, and the thundering voice of The God of Rain prepares them for the work at hand. With barely a whisper, his command roars with the force of a thousand hurricanes destroying everything in their path. On this day, there will be no wayward lazy clouds hiding in the sky catching the last breeze of the day. The ocean blue color painting the sky will soon be replaced with shades of gray and broad strokes of black. My panoramic view of this generation’s monsoon will be breathtaking. Even in its destruction, nature is a wonder to behold, and in its beauty lives the promise of better things to come. Here I stand on the threshold of a brand new day. In Text Box: a minute, the world as we knew it will cease to exist. Feelings of loneliness will be but a faded memory buried in the recesses of your mind, hope and happiness once thought to be only available for the chosen few will be available to all, where the land was barren and the hungry cries of my children pierced the night. I heard their plea for my help-they will cry no more. The disenchanted, the long forgotten will take their rightful place, and no longer will their dreams be filled with thoughts of darkness and sleeping forever. Let the rain come down, God of Rain. It’s a brand new day. Life begins anew today. (8-3-05. When I started writing this piece I truly didn’t have a clue what the hell I was writing, but as I wrote it thoughts of second chances filled my mind. When the rains come it washes everything away, and we have to rebuild. With that thought in mind, I wrote The God of Rain as a metaphor to start over again, and to find who we truly are when all is equal and life’s daily stress doesn’t cloud our minds.)
Text Box: The God of Rain I am not of this life. I am not of this world. My energy comes from a source that is limitless and bountiful. My spirit soars far beyond the reaches of your touch, just beyond the cusp of your imagination; in the haven of the clouds weightless and fluffy like popcorn is where you will find me watching over you as you lead your life secure in the belief that I am here, watching. Today’s rain is being made from scratch by The Rain God, and I sit here quietly as I always do watching him as I’ve done for hundreds of years. He sits in the corner drabbed in his long white coat like a doctor waiting for a patient, but lost in the thought of the job at hand. His beard is the color of freshly fallen snow discernable only when standing close to him it bounces back and forth as he conjures up his magic; the magic I taught to him so long ago as a child. His hands are perpetually wet from his travels around the world, and today is no different. He whispers something, his beard vibrates from the weight of his words and they’re given life; free