Stranger, you persist in your
Pursuit of the rain, though its fault
Was only that at midnight plus four
Hours it aroused a dream. A pinch of salt
Is needed to wash down and accept
What you say. Are the innocent drops
To blame, when they just your hair wet,
Turned you prettier than the night. Props
They were, as also the dark,sullen night,
Viola played by crickets, the melting moon,
Your white veil, blushing dreams, the plight
Of a racing heart, the screen beeping too soon.
No, it was poetry that was the real culprit,
For mere mortals like us a blessing unfit.
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