In college my professor had us write a poem from the prospective of the blind.
Slick, damp, cloying touch on my skin
pungent odor of rain in the air.
mother nature sets her own clock.
Sound of grumbling. . .faint in the distance still
I know the storm is moving closer
the signs are there. . .the smells, the sounds, the feel.
Light fingers sliding down my skin,
cool and steady
nurturing the earth.