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A child will sit at window, rue
The raindrops as they fall.
But when storm clears, he’s fast outdoors,
Where children have a ball.
Each puddle is a wading pool;
Each rivulet, a ford.
The world is now a water park,
With rain and mud adored.
A grownup may be more reserved
Yet there are those who love
The treasure of the falling rain,
Like diamonds from above.
They may not frolic in the mud,
But since they know the pain,
Drought-stricken adults share with child
The joy of the rain.
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The picture is mine, of rain advancing over the valley down below.
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© Dennis Allen Lange, 2020.
The Bard on the Hill 