In Puddles / In the Red Chair

You wrote me prose about the rain and 

now when it storms I can’t seem to

 think about anything else. 

I think of your marmalade

words, your 

cotton-candy smile 

and the comfortable melodies

of you. 

I think about the smell of rain and 

the chemistry of it. 

plant oils and 

coffee soil and

splitting of atmospheric chemicals that form

a scent. 

A moment. 

The chemical refrain of 

tuned orchestration and 

composition. 

This weather between us is

waltzing in puddles and

humming with the showers.

Chemistry. 

Electricity. 

The dulcet cadence of 

a drizzle or 

a downpour. 

Raindrops flooding our worlds with

possibility and 

the pitter-patter song of 

“what could be”

---

Grandma and I 
Sat together in the too-big too-plush 
scarlet chair 
beside the Christmas tree 
waiting for Santa to come.

She unfolded each color-filled page while 
I pointed my tiny fingers at glossy 
snowflakes and train tracks. My hot-chocolate
eyes danced through polar wonderlands
with North Pole characters. 
My squishy little cheek pressed against 
Grandma’s woolly sweater, breathing 
in the scents of paper pages, rose perfume and 
Christmas Eve. 

Grandma and I 
Dreamed together in the fat, 
raspberry chair
beside the star-freckled tree.
Waiting for the train to come.