February Rain
by Darren Stone

There is very little rumbling with this February rain.
Very little to suggest two lives in transition.
No bombastic outbursts.
No crying winds, slamming doors
Or flashbulb skies.
Just a steady, muffled processional of rain that must fall.
Like a roomful of ladies whispering and hushing their secrets to each other,
"They’re in love. Did you hear? They’re in love……"

A quiet rain that beats counter-rhythms across the windshield,
Perpetual patter against the unconscious drumming of my fingertips
On the great wheel of a rented truck.
A soft rain that wets the interstate and gently hisses under a cross-country load.

This February rain falls seamlessly,
Like paper, slowly torn.
Fancy old paper with fancy old promises.
Folded in your fingertips lengthwise and then,
Torn through the middle,
And tossed.

Now a simple swish of rain…
You smooth your new dress,
Adjust the clock,
And wait.

A pause in the patter…
This heavy engine finally settles into silence -
The silence of jingling keys and trembling sighs.
Finally, I am home.

Two dampened hands clutch in the February rain.
A rain of perfect diamonds on the bedroom window.
A rain that smells like your hair on a fresh pillowcase.
A rain that washes away the insignificance of yesterday,
And cleanses the ground for our perfect tomorrow.