Neighborhood streets in Arizona,
dead of fall. Everything looks dead.
Hardly colorful, pretty, exciting.
Just dead.
The nights never were too cold, though,
so we still wandered the roads.
Messy hair. Bare feet. Dead of night. Dead of fall.
Nowhere really, to go.
Knowing not to expect snow,
rather things… still dead?
still sleeping. Lying in wait, for a change.
The bi-monthly occurrence of rain,
bringing that smell, so much stronger there,
than anywhere else I’ve been.
And my best friend and I,
with our bare feet, messy hair and grins,
would go out and dance in the rain.
People called us crazy, weird,
hypothermia in the making.
But we danced.
Life was hard, so we turned to rain,
she was losing a sister to a terrible man.
I was visiting home, back
from an unwelcoming land.
It was difficult. So we turned to rain.
In the dead of dead fall,
and we danced.
