A Season That Forgot Its Name #poetry

The Birth of Rain

I was born in a city where rain did not knock before entering.
It barged in, uninvited, crashing against windows
like a ghost remembering where it once lived.

I watched it carve stories into the dust,
watched it turn puddles into mouthpieces for forgotten voices.
They whispered names I did not know,
names that curled at the edges like old film,
names that once belonged to someone,
somewhere, somewhen.

When I was five, I stretched my hands into the downpour,
tried to hold it, tried to drink it,
tried to make it mine.
But rain is not a thing to be owned.
It is a lover who refuses to stay,
a child with no home,
a song that vanishes mid-melody.

Someone—maybe my mother, maybe the wind—
once told me that every raindrop
was an old sorrow falling back to earth.
That’s why it feels heavier
when you stand in it too long.

I used to believe that.
I used to think I could wash my sadness away
if I just let the rain soak deep enough.
But I grew older.
And the rain did not stop falling.

The Sun That Forgot Itself

You wake up to a world that is burning,
not in flames, but in silence,
in heat that creeps under your skin,
coiling around your bones like something waiting to strike.

The air is thick, swollen with things unsaid.
You press your palm against the glass,
and the sun presses back,
a silent war of touch and refusal.

Outside, people walk like melting candles,
faces dripping, shoulders wilting,
mouths opening only to swallow the heat,
never to speak.

Somewhere, a child licks a melting ice cream,
watching it surrender to the pavement.
Somewhere, a dog pants like it has forgotten how to breathe.
Somewhere, the wind has packed its bags
and left without saying goodbye.

You step outside,
and the sky sticks to your skin like a lie
you once told yourself but never really believed.

The sun is not your friend today.
It is a stranger with too many questions,
with hands that burn instead of hold.
And you wonder—
how long before the earth stops pretending
it can carry this weight?

You think of rain.
But today, the sky does not weep.

The Winter That Waits in the Bones

One day, they will sit by a fire,
wrapped in wool, wrapped in memory,
wrapped in the kind of silence
that only exists when the world outside
has turned to glass.

The frost will creep in slow,
not just on the windows,
but under their skin, into their breath,
curling up inside their ribs like an uninvited guest
who has nowhere else to go.

They will touch the ice with careful fingers,
trace patterns in the frost,
as if trying to find the script
of an old language they once knew.

Somewhere in the future,
they will forget what summer felt like.
Forget the way sweat used to bead at their temples,
forget the weight of the sun pressing against their back.

And maybe they will remember
that once, long ago,
there was a time when rain fell without asking,
when heat curled around them like a second skin,
when leaves knew how to whisper
before they learned how to fall.

But in that moment,
in that cold that stretches beyond time,
they will do nothing but watch the fire flicker,
watch their breath turn to ghosts,
watch the season swallow itself whole.

The Autumn That Remembers Everything

Autumn does not belong to the past.
Nor the present.
Nor the future.

It exists in the spaces between,
in the pause before the first leaf falls,
in the sigh before the last one lands.

You have walked through autumn before.
You will walk through it again.
You are walking through it now.

See the trees, how they unclench their fists,
how they let go with grace,
how they do not beg for what they cannot keep.

See the sky, how it hesitates,
a lover who knows the goodbye is coming
but still lingers at the door.

See yourself—
standing, waiting, wondering
if you have ever truly belonged to a season,
or if you, too, are just passing through.

Autumn does not answer.
It does not have to.
It only folds itself into the wind
and lets the world forget.

The Question That Comes Back

One day, someone will ask again:
“What is your favorite type of weather?”

And I will pause.
And you will pause.
And they will pause.

Because some questions do not have answers,
only echoes.

And somewhere, a season will shift.
And somewhere, a raindrop will fall.
And somewhere, a leaf will loosen its grip,
knowing it was never meant to hold on forever.

#Poetry #Seasons #Weather #Rain #Summer #Winter #Autumn #PhilosophicalWriting #TimeAndMemory #Nature