untitled

there was a summer I remember
where nearly every morning
I awoke to moisture in the air
and the Maples swaying in the wind
that carried the dampness to the bone
an ache for sunshine, though
some deep appreciation for the rain

with every drop that hit
I wondered if it was strange
to be so soothed by gray days
signifying how I felt inside
somehow the falling was relaxing
too introspective for my age
over thinking everything

I'd grab my notebook and a pen
and take off for the park
where no one but me ventured out
and I'd sit under the overhang
of the old town library
writing for hours-imagining my stories
would someday fill the shelves inside

those were big important days
in the small midwest town
so far removed from my today
but even now, when I awake
to the smell of rain in the air
I remember those days and
head outdoors with my notebook and pen