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She smiles and says she loves the rain,
throws back her head and it fills here eyes,
drips from the wispy ends of her hair
Then the dash to the house

to change her clothes and stay in for the night
And sometimes, she says,
to open her window and take out the screen
so she can hear both the patter on the roof
and the pounding in the street

when she sticks out her head and leans on the sill,
as the drops find their way
through tops of trees,
And her desk lamp becomes a fireplace.

She cups her hands and holds a lake.
Waste down, she's inside,
knowing she won't climb out onto the roof,
as nice as it looks from the living room.