I'm living a memory, stolen
from one who lived in a shack,
of two small rooms (for family of many),
a kitchen with wood stove and sink,
no water to run or drain
in pipes, going... somewhere,
with seethrough walls,
and a roof of shiny zinc.
I remember, as if there,
how neighbors young and old emerged
from their own wooden shack homes
to celebrate, dance
to music of Caribbean rain,
in shower of splats that felt,
at times like tiny melting kisses,
other times a cascade
of little water rocks
burning the skin,
like rough play from the sky.
We dancers were superb
because happiness makes it so,
the tapping sound of rain on roofs,
bestows a wealth greater than gold.
I cherish those memories not really mine.
They come from stories my grandmother told
of people whose spirits were rich enough
to see nature as a willing toy,
enticing them to find their joy.
I'm now listening to monsoon rain
splattering on my desert home
with many rooms (for only two),
with solid walls, a fancy stove
and a shingle roof.
Circumstance so different now.
I can still hear music of the rain
drumming on my roof,
tempting me to run
into nature's poured blessings,
dance immersed in joy,
like the people I remember,
because the tapping sound of rain
is everywhere the same.
I proclaim to love the dance,
I remain comfortably content,
to merely listen from inside
my house with running water
instead of playing with the rain.
(Submitted to Poets United.)