Irony.
Rain brings certain warmth to me.
Warmth, rain.
Sitting by the window,
looking at droplets descending
from the skies,
I count their tapping, one...
their rhythm, two...
their breaths, cool, three...
seeping my blanket, four...
then my skin.

How the wind aids their journey, waving its hands
how the wind bids me to join,
there, my dear, come here,
we'll go south,
then north.

Mother,
absorbed on what she reads,
oblivious to what was happening around her.

I wrap myself in a cocoon of warmth
dressed in rain, drenched in irony.

(Enchanted things,
visible only to me.)