When I Think Of The Rain

Reminds me of what Paris must’ve felt like in the twenties.

One night in Copenhagen on a navy blue bridge.

Feels like jazz, splashes if you’re near.

Comes with a chilled gust or a warm rush.

Sneaks into your coat, seeps into socks.

Keeps our heads down.

Melts window panes.

Rushes towards the drain.

Rejoins its source.

Pitters, patters, pours.

Drizzles, drips.

Flows, floods.

Reflects reality.

Rises and falls like waves.

Sweeps across scenery.

Pairs well with blankets and a good book.

And socks. Cozy socks.

Better beneath the water.

Pools to form mirrored worlds.

Shake, shake, shake—please—before entering.

Its next arrival predicted.