Dancing Raindrops
t a p
tip tap
p l i n k
the first drops
come dancing
across tin roofs,
windowpanes,
wide leaves,
bare skin—
tapping out
their quiet
language
on everything
we forgot
to feel.
the wind
turns the sky
into a drum
and each raindrop
a fingertip
playing jazz
on the glass
of the world.
they leap from gutters
swirl in sidewalk puddles
splash laughter on parked cars
and pirouette off petals
like ballerinas
practicing joy.
some fall
straight,
obedient to gravity
but others—rebels—
bounce,
skip,
twist,
spin.
they don’t fall.
they dance.
and every drop
carries a secret rhythm,
a soft choreography
of chaos and calm—
a memory of oceans,
a kiss of cloud-breath,
the sigh of sky.
listen—
not just with ears,
but with skin,
with soles of feet,
with the space
behind your eyes.
the rain is not noise;
it is message.
not a storm;
a ceremony.
and when you step out
into its music,
don’t run.
don’t hide.
just lift your face,
and dance.
let the world
drip
drip
drip
away—
and become
the rhythm
of rain.
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