Tell Me When It Rains

Tell Me When It Rains

And if you do I’ll bring an umbrella.

And if you do I’ll drift my hands over the balcony, letting it drip onto my fingers.

And if you do I’ll make sure to open my windows and let the humidity linger, my plants soaking, no longer lounging in its hunger.

And if you do I’ll know when to throw up my wind chimes, singing with the rain, a ballet for a storm, ringing with a short shingle, dancing with the small drips that find its way onto the fading iron.

And if you do I’ll know when to watch for errant bolts of lightning that may cause forest fires or damage to property, living or not, and listen for the thunder, shaking my pulse pulling my blood blaring rumbles across my chest chaining my legs letting it all freeze.

And if you do I’ll make sure to have my blinds closed so that only the small glimmers of the droplets find their way as I listen to the pitter patter, pitter patter, pitter patter.

And if you do I’ll drift through my sleep, the soft songs luring its way into my weighted eyes.

And if you do I’ll bring an umbrella.

 


I like the rain, and the snow. The feelings that emerge from it, the stillness, the way things seem to change despite nothing really changing. So here, I wanted to do a little bit of an endeavor, a little bit of play on structure, and also to express some motions about rain. Just something short, and sweet, I think.

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