Rainwriting on the Earth

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

The first drops fall like whispers on the tin roof,

hesitant, as if testing the rust, slipping through the gaps

where old nails have loosened, where time has unstitched the seams.

The island has been too dry for too long—

grass turned to brittle thread, soil cracked like parched lips,

trees standing with their arms lifted, begging the sky.

The wind has been cruel, carrying heat in its teeth,

flinging dust against walls, against bare backs,

against restless nights where even sleep burns.

But now, the rain comes—soft at first,

like a child’s breath on a windowpane, then steady, then all at once,

its weight pressing the world back into itself.

It drowns the dust, darkens the sand,

makes a river of the road where footsteps vanish.

The air thickens with the scent of damp earth,

with the coolness that moves through the house

like a long-lost song, slipping through open windows,

past curtains stiff with heat, past the rim of a forgotten glass.

It settles on skin like a memory,

and suddenly, it is not just rain—it is childhood again,

bare feet on wet ground, puddles swallowed by small running steps.

It is the taste of rainwater caught in cupped hands,

the sound of laughter breaking through thunder,

the sky leaning in, heavy, close,

seen through the blur of a summer storm.

The island drinks deeply, its thirst momentarily quenched,

and so does the heart, opening like cracked earth

to the promise of green.

Because this rain is more than water; it is return,

it is remembrance. It is proof that even in the driest seasons,

the sky does not forget how to give.