I Want to Taste the Rain

I want

to taste the rain.

I want

to capture it in sun-washed jars

and store them in fields of grass

that whisper gaily,

like forgotten winds into the ears

of slender trees.

I want to taste the rain

that falls from gray

soft

skies;

like apologies

from tender lips

against the salty cheek

of cracked

black

tar.

I want to taste the rain,

to watch it fall

through the air and

find salvation in the part of my hair,

in the lingering palms of my dreams and

in the insatiable scent of your skin.

I want to taste your skin

(even more so than the rain),

because skin can give

and warm

and rise

while rain can merely

fall.