Sweet Potato Haircut

Is there a way for me to write the wonders of a rainy summer’s day,

the subtle way the whispers of the water sound of 

softness, permission

 to keep my eyes wide and my limbs still,

 sitting in the lampless light of the windowed room 

where I am too enamored by the day 

to wish it away 

or turn on a light.

The passersby and reasons why 

I love them, wet and splashing through the street

to catch the next meeting and make their lives full

(to burst, sometimes it seems) of obligatory motion, 

and I love them, wet and splashing through the streets

because they share the rainy summer’s day with me, 

and under the wide, wet world, we are some semblance of one, 

the shrouded sun setting tufted overcast pockets aglow.

If only you could know the way I wonder at the world

when sidewalks slick with water sparkle my booted feet

and mirror my warped and waylaid face in purply puddles.