What if we talked of rain the way we talk of
snowflakes, of individual pride and
spatters that leave flushes behind would it
change
the rain?

Would we mold lakes from
droplets, figure eights rupturing from our heel
splashes, cashing in on the slopes
and rivers wild that we cultivate by

bearing thick clouds. When the pattering should
arouse would we still shut our windows stiffly and
shroud, or dare we fling our bodies
into the mess of shimmering
wetland,

jettisoning ourselves out into the showers;
we’d turn our arms like
turbine blades and touch each other like
drenched rags, clinging, hard and heavy and soon
airing out in the
sunshine. Riding.

What if we talked of rain, the way we speak of
love?

Life giving,
rolling in with the darkness,
thrumming,
a pounding,
and crashing down to kiss

the dry parts of us.
I’d give guess,

we’d run towards the storm, panting,
tongues lolled, mad beings,
lunatic convulsions
screaming
hungry.
Dying to drink. Tearfully singing.