sometimes i compose
so many poems i think
i bleed them out; some
days i believe the ******
poetry nestled in my veins
are all that's left of
me.

it begins
slowly at first
a light mist
it comes down harder and faster
i am skipping and leaping
twirling
my feet light as air
skimming over the ground
air whooshing by me
small flecks of coolness
sliding downward
creating trails of tears
soaking in all the joy of
dancing in the rain.