We open the window in the playroom and listen to something out of Explosions in the Sky. Rain falls in big, fat drops against the tin roofs. The city is covered in mist and is mystified. The little one listens attentively as I try to explain rain in the narratives of science, myth, music and poetry. We describe some pleasant smells that could accompany the rain.
It was another difficult night at work, capped by a long commute and I thought of when I can rest. It's stressful and pointless to even form a sentence to dwell on my exhaustion. As though the rain washed me clean of weariness, I'd rather not sleep and tell you,
(i do not know what is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody not even the rain, has such small hands.
-e.e. Cummings
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