He must have been enjoying one of those warm solid rains. The kind where you feel the pulse of the rain as it beats upon you. The kind where you do feel thousands of little kisses from the Heavens. They're warm and firm and gentle. I do love that kind of rain.
But there are other kinds as well.
Imagine if Langston had been in Seattle. He might have said, "Let the rain mist you." Seattle rain is more like walking through a spray. You don't feel individual drops. You hardly even feel wet. You mostly feel like, well, like algae growing on your face or something. You feel more wet and slimy than anything else. Can't say I'm much for Seattle rain.
Then, there's what Langston could have written if he'd been in the desert. The poem might very well have said, "Let the rain drown you." Desert rain comes down fast and hard. It rains for under an hour, but during that time you feel like a bottomless bucket of water is being poured upon your head. All the water in the world coming down on your small spot of earth. Can't say I'm much for desert rain.
What about a winter rain? Langston would surely have started his poem, "Let the rain slice you." Winter rain is cold and thin and sharp. Winds whip the rain so it's so many sword blades that slice and cut. That rain hurts and wounds. Can't say I'm much for winter rain.
You know, Langston picked the perfect rain to write about. Rain is many things, but it's at its best when it melts all over you like warm butter. When it creates a counter melody to the rhythm of your mind. My favorite rain is the kind that kisses you, forming silver liquidy pools.
I love that kind of rain.
