Rain is seen as a cleansing ceremony, a metaphor for dark clouds and biting cold. It’s romanticized. “I love the rain. everything is new,” My friend said something along those lines and my eyes frowned.
“The rain is my mortal enemy,” I say, gazing out at the rain falling in icy sheets, reminding me of shards of glass.
Don’t get me started about the cold. Wet and cold is the worse combination. I feel like the rain is only good for the sound, it could last forever.
Rains made me think a great battle had happened.
It reminded me of Hemmingway’s “A Farewell To Arms.”
These months typically carry rain, a relentless rain bordering winter to spring.
the pretty poems 
Leave a Reply