The organic wetness of the world,

painting pictures in the dry sidewalks below.

Puddles bombarded with yellow rubber boots and

umbrellas-turned-waterfalls illustrate its admiration.

We love it’s cold, renewing touch and hate its brethren so –

the clashes of lighting and cannons of thunder

that echo through the once quiet neighborhood.

It brings hydration to the parched flowerless bushes

that cover the greening yards.

Streams of it race down windows and faces that get caught in its storm.

I look to the sky and allow the dampness to cover my body;

and hair –

causing it to stick to my cheeks and forehead.

I pity the person who dares not to feel its touch,

for the fear they may not enjoy it or the fear that they may.