The Two Faces of Nature

I love the rain so dearly.

A cold lover to hold me in my melancholy and wash me clean.

Or a specter to chase you into shelter with a scream and flash.

She is a fickle woman; the rain.

Yet without her I could not live.

Her touch is pure, a refreshing elixir.

Yet fear her as well.

She can lash out, a deep cut in the earth made by her hand.

Brought down by with light, a wicked scar her wrath can leave.

Two-faced she dances; a waltz of destruction or a smooth step of nourishment.

I love the rain, both her hurt and her comfort.