It's raining
of bare trees
and yellow leaves
to fertilize the roots
for the winter around the corner.
I see moss
to collect
passed for a
crib
always new.
He comes out a snail,
moving his home
in new places.
I wash the skin
and soul
in the rain
of the dead.
The final sentence, the rain of the dead, I am reminded that the image could be time for me is what is sadness, sadness but not a "sweet", but that troubled, that painful, like a black hole that deep : the rain that flows towards the evening on the graves. This for me is the image of the darkest sadness.
But instead your verses are of rebirth, of hope, of things to come.
Reading, for all the poetry I thought about the hope and the ... "Rain of the dead" I presented my image of gloomy sadness for what we become.