I Can Hear

by MBKuhl

I can hear the pitter-patter of rain on the roof
like the feet of children that might be ours,
splashing all over each other over and over
like small bodies do when they dive into the sea;
small hands, small feet, shaking with energy,
shocked at each wave coming in and
crashing on the sand; covering them with joy,
and water.

I can hear the grumble and crack of thunder outside
like the gulps and guffaws of old men that sit
across from the market on the bench, shouting,
canes clacking against the ground, hands flying in the air;
old, gnarled, bony hands whose years you could not see
from the way they mold and mend the air before them
and the lively cackles and coughs filling them with joy,
and air.

I can hear the quivering hum of the wind on the walls
like the sighs and sneezes that are surely yours
which lap and overlap each other like waves do,
tumbling crashing over my hands, my feet;
the currents of your curves; the squalls of your breaths,
turning me to your colors like the sea.
Gray, green, salty, freckled and soft with joy,
and laughter.