The Rhythm of
© 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.
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.