I was once standing in a field of tall grass after a summer storm, the ground still damp, the air smelling of wet earth and old wood. The rain had left a thin silver trail on the leaves, and I could hear the distant creek humming its ancient lullaby. In that moment, the world seemed to pause, and I remembered my grandmother’s garden, the way she’d braid my hair with wild thyme, humming a lullaby that only the wind could hear. It felt like the storm had carried her voice right into my ears.

I did. After that storm I grabbed my notebook and just started doodling the shapes of the rain‑slick grass, the way the light hit the leaves. A few pages later I had a short poem that felt like a secret conversation between the wind and my grandmother. It wasn’t finished, but it stayed in my drawer, waiting for a quiet afternoon when the air smells like rain again.

Thank you, that means a lot. I’ll keep that idea in mind and maybe find that quiet patch again next time it rains. It feels good to know the unfinished verses can wait for another soft afternoon.