Drops fall in unison,
roaring on the roof like
a giant’s fan sent to cool the homestead off.

Meanwhile, the beads that fell first
splash into puddles and pots,
filling rows up when all they did was fall down.

The grey has never brightened your mood,
but I guzzle water.
You don’t see its point; You want
the sun to match the marigolds,

but if you’d have the world a desert-
if you’d have no world-

mock, take your time, graffiti,
your painting of this woman-

she runs to the rain shower,
lets it lead her swaying,
tilts her head back and kisses it-

storm-bathed.