rain - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Honeyed rain before a golden sun promises new rainbows to the day.
The watery alphabet of the clouds comes to sing upon the roof.
And so the rain invites a street of colourful umbrellas to blossom.
I only realise the rain is cold because my skin carries the heat of my blood, because my inner fires burn strong. And as I stride onwards my eyes are always seeking the rainbows given by the light.
From blossomed clouds come water-petals into the fresh spring air.
Rain conjures a sweet pattern upon my skin, the thousands of liquid globes reflecting the greenery of nature. It is cooling on this warm day, a welcome shower to add to the senses.
Each raindrop is the drop that kissed your skin in those days that we were together, me and you, my baby boy. Each one is the same because they sing of these such treasured memories, of the comforting love that remains and the hopes I hold for your future. And so, I love the rain better than photographs, for each one is a perfect moment.
Give me the rain in those flashing sheets of cold droplets and I'll show you how the world breathes into those ready to live. Show me how the rain traces sweet paths on your skin and I'll give you a way to feel more alive than any manmade high ever could. So as the clouds gather I feel my soul stir, the air electrified as it anticipates the quenching storm.
Let the rain come, for I am safe and warm in my home. Let it come with its serenade on the roof and steady drumming on the windows. From this cozy place I watch it enrich the sweet brown soils and make glossy every leaf. It is the liquid goodness that goes to the roots and brings the world to such health.
Show me the rain and I will show you that which fills the holy grail, for without the cloud given water it is only a cup. Yet with these drops that come to greet the earth with the splendour of their music and the sensation of flow, is the feeling of joy - not the elevated and loud happiness of the rave, but the sweet serenity of a loving quiet purpose.
If the rain is one drop it is millions, cascading from a confident sky. It is the sort of weather that washes everything anew, bringing deep puddles into which children splash. And in that happy congregation of water and air, is the sense of being alive, that from such beautiful simplicity comes everything we love, the flora, the fauna, the very essence of nature.
Here come the drops steady and soft, falling from a sky of white velvet. They come altogether and yet as pioneers. And though I am soon quite wet, I have the joy of the leaves, of everything that makes the world so green.
In late summer the Earth is ready for the rains, for sweet drops to quench the soils. It is then that the pitter patter returns to the woodlands, simple water to bring nature's magic. The pathways strengthen from a dusty brown to deep mahogany, reviving a healthy glow I've longed to see return. Summer foliage has it's time, the green canopy to give shelter when it's needed, yet this is beauty also, the heaven-given promise seasonal changes fulfilled.
The rain brings a richness to each hue, the browns deepen in a way that soothes my heart, brings a steadiness to my soul. The grass becomes glossy, reflecting the light, a new bright shine to their wands, softly waving in the breeze. This rain brings a freshness, each drop a heaven-given gift for each part of creation. I raise up my hand, tilt my face toward the sky, feeling water and sunshine together. As I do, a song stirs within, one that feels as if it means "thank you" and "love" all at once. Perhaps this is joy, a happiness that feels pure.
We have these autopilot submarine tankers. They go to where the sea-storms are and collect the rain, a funnel filling the underwater tank. Then they go to where the fresh water is needed... and it's all done with clean technology. We still do desalination, but this is easy and there's no point in letting all that clean water just fall in the ocean.
The rain comes, oblivious to the life it gives. It washes the world, quenching soil and the life whom depend upon it. In either warmth or coldness, sunlight or moonlight, rain comes, humble to its role. In this almost-spring afternoon, it is the percussion to the birdsong and the bringer of brightness to every hue of bark and leaf.
Rain floats in gentle waves, as if gravity is a soft music from the Earth, a sweet beckoning serenade. Each drop bequeathes itself unto the cooling air - wet lifeboats in a dry sea. Together they paint a new picture around a glowing streetlamp. Light streams into the rich blue, as if seeking the sun, as if it is a song to the moon - and in those sacred drops it blooms into a star like those above. Sarah smiles, because in that moment, the water and the light have become a golden flower, an echo of life bursting into the night.
The rain has lost the ambient temperature of early fall, freezing and paling my skin on contact. The path through the park is muddy water in motion, filling deep puddles that hide the ruts of dryer weather. To feel it isn't enjoyment, not fun like the gentle sunshine of springtime, yet it is a part of life and I want to feel it just the same. I want to experience each drop, together and apart, same and different. I want to see the droplets soaking my eyelashes before they join their brethren on the ground like saltless tears. I need to be in this, chaotic and wild, just like my mind and soul - like nature looked right into me and pulled the weather out.
Rain falls like God's own poetry; each drop is a single letter in a song that takes eons to sing. It has always been music, always called to me in ways I cannot explain. When the patter of the drops tumbles from grey skies the melody brings serenity no matter the chaos in my life. Rain. Blessed rain.
Each drop sits on my skin like a puddle that will never leave, perfectly formed, perfectly cold. I feel the water steal my body heat just a tiny bit at a time. Perhaps once I would have sort shelter or warmth - but no longer. I have become accustomed to the elements, to the wind and chill. There is a coziness in my suffering, as if life has and will always be this way. There is comfort in predictability.
I wonder though, what if the sun broke through? What if each drop sparkled with light? What then? Would the warmth seep through and bring a new reality? Would I shake off this rain as easily as a cat after a storm? Because... I think I'd like that. I'd like that a lot.