The rain has come to change the
world, submerging with wetting
breath, all to humid flux of delightful
moistness. Only here do plants
fluoresce in emboldened realness,
vivid as green stars, flushed and
plump as turgid cells drunk to their
fullest.

And though the sky is grey and
misted hazy close, to this speak the
scents of May flowers: all their
headiness poured forth, all their
potent force to the fluid of the air, all
their sweetened voice given: as if
their beings were vaster than the
boarders of their bodies.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.