rain baby, teething

rain showed me a
wet, hungry face
he chewed at the
edges of my jeans
and umbrella, drooling
all over the place,
angry, he stuck out
his fists, shouting –
rattling thunder – and
then quietly settled
into a tiny slumber

pillow talk

the rain wanted to undo
the sun, peel off her
layers, pin her across a blue
sky turned grey –
unwind the threads, one by one
even if they were frayed
to love each hue down
into the ground, see her
true colors bloom, not fade –
arching her back, she listened closer
to what the rain had to say

a sad word

treat us gently, the words said
we sometimes treat them unkindly in our heads
slap them around in our mouths,
rolling out, falling down all wrong,
instead, tread lightly – the words said
so their significance won’t wane
or be misread, or left in the cold
unheard and dead, and they won’t be
the ones left to blame