Beckett: Poetry – No. 1956, Rain

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.

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