Rain That Knows Me

Rain That Knows Me

It starts before the forecast—

a cool hand on the forehead

of the day.

*

First drop finds the wrist,

remembers my pulse,

keeps time.

*

I don’t open an umbrella.

I let the sky read me—

ink lifting from an old page,

letters loosening into weather.

*

The street darkens kindly.

Puddles stitch mirrors

at my feet; in each one

I am a softer outline.

*

You taught me once

to breathe with thunder,

to let the count between flash and boom

become a bridge.

I still cross it.

*

Some showers are blunt,

all drum and dare.

This one is fluent—

names my tired by name,

Rinse the grit off.

*

I walk until the coat gives up,

until my pockets are small lakes

with coins asleep at the bottom—

wishes that chose rest.

*

Behind a window, someone laughs.

It beads on the glass and stays—

happier than water

than as sound.

*

I listen for the click inside—

that latch releasing

When sorrow has had enough speech.

The rain answers in syllables

My shoulders can translate.

*

By the time the bus arrives,

The world is all steam and truce.

I board it soaked and certain,

leaving footprints that evaporate

into a rumor of light.

*

When the sun shoulders through,

I’m not new, exactly—

just less held by what held me,

as if the weather knows my door code

and lets itself out gently.