Rain Is Not Always Sad

It didn't thunder.
It didn’t scream.
It fell quietly,
like it knew I needed soft.

The windows
held stories in their fog.
Little rivers raced down
like secrets let go.

Somewhere,
I heard a child laugh
while holding a bright red umbrella
like a shield against the gray.

I stood there,
not broken,
not healed
just still.

The kind of still
that only comes
when you're done running
but not ready to speak.

It smelled like change,
like wet earth
opening its arms again,
inviting something new.

No lightning,
no chaos,
just a gentle tap
against everything I feared.

My mother once said,
“Rain helps the flowers sleep.”
I never understood
until I felt peace in the downpour.

We always think
the sky weeps
because it's hurting.
But sometimes, it's giving.

Giving green to trees,
music to silence,
and space
to begin again.

It washed my eyes,
not my tears
those were mine
long before the sky joined in.

It didn’t ask questions.
Didn’t expect smiles.
It stayed until the ache dulled
and the air smelled new.

I walked outside,
let it touch my skin.
Not to feel cold
but to remember warmth returning.

And I whispered,
“Not all storms destroy.”
Some come
to remind us how to bloom.