The Inuit have twenty-two words
for snow and ice
and so should we
for rain.
There is the moist rendering
of pins and needles
as though you are suspended
inside a cloud.
Or the nagging monotony
of raindrops tapping
on glass,
getting nobody’s
attention.
There is rain whipped so hard
by wind that it moves side to side
like a Latin dancer,
and rain that drops down
heavy and drenching
like fake rain
in romantic comedies.
But today’s rain
is my favourite kind,
fervent
typewriter
rain,
hammering out its story
as fast
as it can
wet
wet
wet
wet
wet
wet
the air is saturated
by the second act,
even the ground listens,
engrossed,
drinking it in,
so full it bulges and leaks,
sending the worms
crawling around
craning their bodies to the sky
desperate to hear
the ending.