Of Rain And His Brothers

and the rain falls because it loves, it loves the plummeting through the air and the dizzy spinning of the clouds and the joining with its thousands and millions and thousands of millions of brothers all flying, all falling without fear toward the great blue sphere. and the wind blows because it loves, it loves the way it can spiral and gustle and whirr through the air, but wind is air, and air is wind, and they are one and they are neither. and then the ocean waves, not waves of the sort that crash and fall, breaking and reforming, shards of spume and fragments of spoam, waves of the sort that skid and skip over the surface of the great deep, the mingling of the wind and the rain and the heavy earthbound water that longs to fall again, that longs to be caught up in the gusts and whipped up and let fall again. but the wind has no power over the will of the waves - it can only rumple the bedsheets and tussle the hair, and the ocean is sad, but the raindrops fall and fall on, and the waves feel the love of the rain  in the shooting stars that are the drops, and the waves rise up with tender fury to meet the rain, and the wind wraps them both, like the brothers they are, and for an instant and another they are united and the world is love.