I've found I have an unnatural affinity for rain.

How long it's been I cannot know,

but I only find just recently

through anthologies revisited

all the hopes and dreams and poetry,

those subtle rain drop patterns

left behind in words.

So I'm a parched flower crisp with perpetual heat,

dry with forever thirst,

and if I ever see the grey clouds

conjoin and hug, all sweet,

I run to watch them crack like eggs, in thunder--

or torn like cotton, flooding from white

giving the ground taste, a drink,

never enough, always please, more--

that I might stand open-faced like a turkey

and drink,

drink until the storm has passed.

(I don't to waste it.

It never lasts.)