.: Painter :.

Dull rain cut the sky
with slanting streams of water.
A wet ridge cut the forests,
attacking the clouds from the ground.

He took the grass and wrinkled the puddles.
Thus he soaped the earth.
In gray he painted everything.
And sounds, too. Just the sound of water.

It was a rain portrait.

To me, the portrait came out too sad.
Or maybe it's not because of the rain?
And I ascribe feelings that are not in him—
but instead in me.

Or maybe this rain is funny; look how it skips around.
He washes cities and villages.
Lightning and thunder are friends with him.
And then a miracle happens.

He begins to paint there, a rainbow in the sky.