" The rain is a moody woman. She's old as the earth, but she's fresher than first love. Everytime. She's fiesty and if you are to be trusted, she's almost-fascist, silencing even the trees. And you capture that heaviness of blankness beautifully, likening the experience of standing under last-night's-rain-drenched tree to a home without your lover..
Your shorter poems that even obliquely refer to the rain stab my heart like some of the lovelier kamathupaal kurals do. I like it especially when you accuse the rain, repeatedly. For delay that destroys crops. For indifference on where it pours out (like love, not always to those in need). Thiruvalluvar merely sang its praises. You almost carry on a lover's quarrel with her. "