The Rhythm of the rain
2003 Eric C. Lind

Rain tickles me.

Rain is some tender massage.

A light hidden smile that you only get to see up close, or know to look for it.

Few do.

Kire - the Japanese sentiment for the powerfully tender black shimmer of hair in the rain.

Like some sacred massage oil meant to sheen off a freshly waxed car.

I hear the rustle of the grass, the crickets.

Look to the crescent and wait for natural incandescence.


Is it raining on your side of the street?

Green skies and air like smelling salts abound

from green prairie grass, that washing sound so pure

it tickles me.