This is my favorite kind of world—
The kind of world where I don’t have anywhere to be
But under this firm clay tile
Listening to the thick drops of rain
Plummet down upon the earth.
This world I’m under is cool and delicious
And smells like a candlelit dinner after a lonely afternoon.
I could stay here for years just humming
And letting my heart beat with the streams off the drain.
My skin is singing and for the first time
Has rid itself of its usual sticky clamor
Feeling as cool and approachable as the drips outside.
The breeze which peppers my smooth brow
Sounds like a thousand giggles after a bone-dry morning
Of nothing but bad dreams and cold oatmeal.
The breeze and I breathe together,
And I think to myself:
This is nothing like bad dreams
And cold oatmeal,
This world of mine.