may song

weekly poem | first rain, finally

But First Dear Reader, A Note To You

How are all of you doing? Time seems to be slipping through my fingers. It feels like just yesterday that I was writing my Poem for April, and now it’s already May. In the past week, a few spells of rain have given us some relief from the incessant heatwave.

I am thankful. We are going into May with a little more cool wind, a little more greenery.

The rain has always filled me with a deep quietness. It’s almost like the roar of the rain acts like a foil to silence. Dear reader: if you can, find a quiet moment before you read this poem. Damp earth below you, a heavy sky above. Let’s begin.

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may song

after the rain

a crisp edge 

opens like a blade

and catches the May light.

the clear, serrated air 

cleaves apart 

the orange heart of summer,

a new breeze entering 

through the split skin. 

now the dust returns

to the soil 

settling 

like the end of a deep sigh.

in the distance 

a rash of pink flowers appears

across the slick green,

wet petals quivering

with the knowledge

of what it means to bloom 

again 

and again.

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I’ve always felt that the rain has a clarifying effect on the air, almost a sharpness. It made sense to think of it as a blade, slicing open the heat and giving way to renewal. A chance for the shy bud to bloom. A rupture through which everything is washed away: dust, debris, past hurt.

For me, with this clarity comes an openness to detail. I feel like I’m experiencing it all for the first time again: the loose soil settling, the flowers uncurling in the distance, the lingering smell of fresh earth.

What a gift to be able to receive this openness with something as ordinary as the rain.

Of course, I’m lucky: to be able to experience even the heaviest rain comfortably from a secure shelter. Not everyone can romanticise the rain. With the sharp knife of the rain comes battered dwellings, uprooted trees, flooded streets, hours of no electricity. With the first slash of monsoon’s wrist comes malaria, dengue, cholera, leptospirosis.

All of this exists together. The beauty and the violence. The icy breath of loss rides on the furrows of every cool wind.

So this poem isn’t necessarily about beauty, or romanticising it. It’s just about a small expansiveness. About finding a place in the body where the rain can come through.

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Before You Go…

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Finally, here’s what I’ve been loving on Substack this week:

Driving out with my daughter

tangled up in blue

I’ll be back with a new poem next week. Until then, take care.

Love,

Anagha