...tell me a story about rains, again. I remember the first time,
sitting in the dark,
looking out the window at the rain coming down,
watching the cars pass through the
damp sinuous streets.
I had just repeated the old cliché about
Eskimos, and you turned towards me and smiled
gently, before a
litany of words poured from your mouth like a
sudden
cloudburst ...
downpour,
storm,
mizzle,
light
precipitation,
hurricane,
deluge,
shower,
typhoon,
scud,
drizzle
washout,
cats and dogs..
words washing
over me like
the rains from heaven, like a baptism washing away my
sins.
So tell me a story about rains, all those stories unfurling with the
curling of leaves as the water drips from them after the storm has
passed. Sitting in the rain at night, that time, out on the
porch reaching out with our hands to catch raindrops you turned to
me with that smile on your lips again and said I love it when it rains at night. Do you remember how you told me that rain is best
when warm and how when you were a child you would always run outside
on evenings like this with your tongue stuck right out to catch the
drops, and our lips brushed together as a single drop fell between them
and you said I was tasty like a raindrop.
Tell me a story about rains, just one more time, and wash me clean,
because I'm sitting in the rain, in a place where it rains too
much and it can't rain all the time can it?