This is a gentle tear in the fabric of what you thought was real, full of truth disguised as frolic. It was written for the ones who have looked at the rain and almost remembered. It’s a call to look closer. Because when the sky opens, something deeper than weather begins to build. It’s older than logic, something that brushes the edge of your soul and vanishes before you can name it.
This poem invites you to pause. To feel. To question what you’ve dismissed. To revisit the moments that logic explained away, and see them again with the eyes of your inner child, the part of you that still remembers how to play.
But playfulness isn’t all that rain brings. We all know that water can be a destructive beast. Yet have you ever wondered, what if it’s more than just a force of nature? What if it is a conscious being, and a teacher?
We know it cleanses the body, but have you ever noticed how it lightens the soul? A hot shower after a long day isn’t just washing off dirt. It shifts the energy, what you’ve absorbed that was never yours to carry. We’ve all experienced, it’s not just skin-deep but an energetic shift. A release. Water understands what you’re ready to let go of. It’s ancient, neutral, and compliant, it waits for your direction and it always remembers.
What if the raindrops are not falling, but performing? What if they are not blind, but watching? What if they are waiting for you to watch back, to laugh, to dance, to remember?
This is an offering for those who long to reconnect with the living world. To remember that magick isn’t something we conjure, it’s something we notice. And before we remember how to use it, we must remember what it feels like.
Dance with the Raindrops
You speak of knowing
the world, its wires,
its webbed illusion.
Mapping the matrix with certainty…
but fail to see the truth unfolding
in a single raindrop’s descent.
You can tell me
about systems and symbols,
recite the teachings,
quote the histories
bleached and hollow.
But have you ever seen the magick?
I mean truly seen it
in the way raindrops… play?
They don’t fall, they dance.
Like they’re alive.
Like they know you’re watching.
And when they realise,
they put on a show.
When they feel you watching…
they light up.
They dance harder. They play. They invite.
They spiral and spin.
Waltzing through the air
with intention in their movement.
Curving around corners,
dodging branches,
twisting mid-air
like ribbons twirlers.
Your logical mind might kick in
“It’s just the wind,” it insists.
Rational, sterile and stoic.
But stay longer.
Look closer.
You haven’t understood a thing yet.
Watch…
How they hesitate.
How they hover,
whilst choosing where to land.
How they seek heat and light.
and the gravitational pull of you.
Some of them laugh,
yes, laugh!
in frequencies you feel
more than hear.
This is the chuckle of water sprites
playing tag on your skin.
Raw, reckless wonder.
You’ve heard the rain
countless times
but I challenge you:
remember just one,
And think on these revelations.
When have you feel them
walk across your skin?
Not pound. Not pelt.
But pirouette.
Like whispered kisses.
Like a memory your cells remember
before your mind catches up.
Have you ever laughed back at them?
Can you describe that dance,
how they move across your body?
those soft-footed spirits.
No weight. No wet.
Just breath, like silk.
They flirt with your fire.
Your warmth is their ballroom.
And in that moment you realise,
you’re not just standing in the rain…
You are part of the performance.
But let us not mistake
this joy for simplicity,
we know what water can do.
It can rise like a beast,
swallow cities whole.
Wash away empires.
Crash through concrete
like a tsunami doomsday.
We call it a force of nature
but what if it’s more than that?
What if it’s not just
a tool of the Earth’s rage or joy,
but a being? An elemental.
A consciousness.
Older than myth.
Wiser than memory.
Compliant… but never tame.
It waits for your commands,
to heal or to harm.
It is neutral. It is ancient. It listens.
It is transformation, in a trickle.
It understands its purpose.
Because water connects everything.
It moves through us,
between us, beyond us.
They say this is the water planet,
but have we taken that for granted?
Have we forgotten
that water is not just life,
It is the teacher?
Sometimes the lesson
is to let go of decoding.
To stop dissecting and resisting.
To surrender, to the rhythm,
the pulse, the breath of the world.
To dance with the wonder of a child.
To let the raindrops guide you.
They will find you
like a single drop finds the sea.
Drawn to pulse.
To energy. To return.
To merge and be seen.
They gravitate.
They seek the flicker of life,
the invitation of awareness.
Doesn’t it make you wonder…
Why there’s such a primal pull
to dance in the rain?
Why joy erupts like lightning
in the hearts of children,
barefoot and beaming,
spinning beneath the sky?
Like they are playing
With a hundred invisible friends,
Because they are!
Because they remember.
The adults may have forgotten,
but little ones know.
This is not just weather.
It’s a whisper. A celebration.
It’s a ritual, with altar of skin
your laughter becomes offering.
And the water sprites?
They kiss you, innocently
like an outstretched hand,
inviting you back
onto the dance floor of the wild.
Only when you’ve felt this,
not read it, not heard it –
but felt it in your very core
and let it grasp every heartstring,
then you’ll understand:
The magick you seek within
is stitched into everything.
Into water. Into wind. Into wonder.
Water is the conduit and conductor.
And once your eyes adjust
to this way of seeing,
you’ll see it everywhere.
Not just in raindrops…
but in puddles that shimmer like portals.
In dew that clings to wild grass
like starlight spun in beads.
In the swirl of mist,
the rhythm of tides,
the tears that fall
when something sacred
moves through you.
Water remembers.
And it waits, for you
to remember too.
So, drop the lens of logic.
Let curiosity crack the surface
of the sterile system
designed to blind and bind you.
Because Mother Nature knows,
She hid her treasures well,
Saved for the ones who remember
how to play.
And perhaps then you’ll understand
why birds rejoice in the rain.
Not just bathing, but frolicking.
Spinning. Leaping.
Caught in the rhythm
you’ve just begun to witness.
Its madness, or instinct.
But a hidden dance
with the elementals.
A rite, they never stopped performing.
So next time it rains,
don’t rush for cover.
Tilt your head. Let the sky speak.
Let the laughter touch your skin.
When they come, and they will –
watch the raindrops remember you,
just as you remember
what it’s like to believe.
When the next storm calls, be still.
Listen to the voice of the thunder.
Let the wet touch you like prophecy.
Let it tell you, once again…how to see.