[1] From the country of rain A letter arrived today.

I opened it with my eye- lash and took all of her in, in one big thirsty gulp.

She wrote it; she who shimmers like the lighting that is dancing in these evening clouds.

[2] He said, “Too long have I waited for this rain, staying up nights racked with a strange thirst.”

She said, “Wasn’t it since that night when I last put my mouth against your clavicle, and whispered like the rain against a dark window, how much I will always love you?”

He replied: “Yes, for rain to either wash away the scent of frangipani* your hands left on my bones, or to mask the sound of your anklets as you slip back into bed so that I wake up to your mouth's delicate tattoos.”

[3] She asked, “Do you feel better?” As she pulled a dense curtain of her wet tresses across His heat-cracked visage.

How does one answer A daughter of the rain?

[4] Caught in a cloudburst He collected a few luminous Watery pearls in his cupped Palms, and left them at Her closed door for her feet To step over, to step into.

Note:*Frangipani (in yellow or white) is usually offered to Shiva, after whom I am named.