Kiss the Rain

I stand here by the lakeshore, and I smell fresh honeysuckle as I kiss the rain. A memory that I cannot curtail wafts bitter sweetly to me, and again it’s May. . . the night you came by the moon's light. The air was permeated by perfume from blossoms colored innocently white. But now it’s summer; yellow is each bloom. When plump upon the vines, sweet berries, red, will be swooped up by birds - carried away. I stoop to touch a stem. How soon has fled my flowered youth, and now this day chilled grey. I bow in downpour like the vines bent low while raindrops - glistening with my own tears - flow.