My child loves the rain

My child loves the rain. He was not raised with its cold fingers kneading into the night and steeples of fog ringing gloomy rhymes, but I remember times huddled inside, day upon day, the meadows dank and lonely, the trees black and only a memory of summer. My child loves the rain, for he was raised in my refuge of light where rain is the incidental servant to green, lightning slashed through the searing scent of lime trees in the dark, the brilliant respite of morning in the South, the taste and the grain of earth in his mouth.

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