In jest, I always say the rain
matches my gloomy soul.
In truth, I adore its essence:
Its pristine smell of petrichor
that polishes every green thing
like an oil painting come alive.
Its symphonic pitter-patters
of a melody that lulls to sleep
with the harmony of the wind.
Its memories that form
in the synapses of my psyche
of fresh coffee before a fire.
It is soothing to my soul,
even more than sunshine.
Perhaps I’m gloomy after all.
The Lutheran Column 