WRITE THE WORLD REVIEW ARCHIVE

It begins with patter, like the impatient tap
of painted nails, the rain thrums on the roof.
The wind swooshes in, positions the curtains
parallel to the floor, and does a better job than
the house cat at knotting eights between
your ankles. The water falls faster. Faster than
the flurry of feet, rushing to fasten slamming
doors and shivering windows. It’s cold.
But the rain beckons for you in pattering
undulations, promising fluttering rains
and the sweetest taste of the cosmos
on your lips. So you succumb. Fingers wrapping
around metal window grills, you stretch out your hand
and call for the rain. So it kisses you, like sparks
across your skin. And then, as abruptly as it began,
it ends. And it ends with petrichor.