I close my eyes and look up,
smiling gleefully at the skies.
I open my mouth wide
and feel fat dollops of rain
splashing in my face,
splatting raucously
on my super-stretched tongue,
rivuleting through my hair
and down the nape of my neck.
Suddenly I’m seven.
So very young,
and so very, very alive!
I don’t care if I get soaked.
I want to get soaked!
Soaked down to my socks.
When does one get old?
Is it the day we decide
we don’t want to get wet?
But then what do we miss
that the children still get?
When do we lose our love
of splashing like a wilding
through the summoning puddles?
Admit, I must, few are the times
when I haven’t dashed inside,
and far fewer still the times
I’ve purposefully gone out
to play in the pelting rain.
Yet those have been the moments
that I’ve felt most alive,
weightless with joyful abandon,
gloriously, uproariously free.
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