on my propensity to write poetry when its raining

because dancing alone
in mud-puddles
beckons close
stringy-haired grace.

because i have to
leave my lamp on,
soft and yellow,
when i brush my teeth
in the morning.

because children
huddle under clear
umbrellas,
with yellow slickers
and pink golashes,
while droplets bead
and roll off of their
weatherproof souls.

because reflective pools
in the asphalt
soften the angles
of your face
in the ripples.

because people
like to hold hands
under dripping willows.

because you love
the smell of the fog
and i want to love
you.