something I've been stuck on and trying for force to it's end so please help me finish this thought and change what is weak about it.
Softly, in fine tiny drops my fields are drenched with rain.
It falls as if it has all day to do it’s work.
There is pleasure in its pace.
Without the theatrics of thunder it
graces us with it’s soaking presence,
giving the earth time to drink
I feel part of that process within myself,
drinking in this washing rain,
that removes the dust that had settled in my mind