They tap like fingers on the windowpane,
But they aren’t fingers, they are only rain.

    


They fall the way bees do into a flower,
But they aren’t bees, they’re pieces of a shower.

They jump in puddles just like little men,
Then they aren’t ever even rain again.

They’re simply water wrinkled by the motion
Of streams and rivers till they’re only ocean.

But oceans turn to waves, and waves to spray
And mist that shimmers on a sunny day

And floats across the sky above the shrouds
Of ships until it folds up into clouds.

Then raindrops fall again. Unless they’re snow.
My teacher told me this, and so it’s so.