After the rain, the sky seems to celebrate. The clouds shine metallic hues and reach their arms across the great expanse. I want to eat up the ice cream clouds and fill my belly with the light rays from it's great reach. These are fleeting moments, like the last few moments of a sunset, or sunrise. I remember hearing a story in which Maxfield Parrish was criticized for using unrealistic colors in his paintings. I never understood that story. For all one need do, is take a walk outside and glance heavenward during the great transitions of the day to see his reality. Indeed, they are fleeting, but always visible to the naked eye.
I opened my eyes
And looked up at the rain,
And it dripped in my head
And flowed into my brain,
And all that I hear as I lie in my bed
Is the slishity-slosh of the rain in my head.
I step very softly,
I walk very slow,
I can't do a handstand--
I might overflow,
So pardon the wild crazy thing I just said--
I'm just not the same since there's rain in my head.