they are saying you are solely lonesome when it rains
one thing concerning the gods weeping
however I do not suppose that is true
raindrops at all times sound like residence to me
not simply any home, you see
however that deep place in your heart
the place tiger lilies march with cat eyes
and caterpillars burst forth with wings
the place you’ve got a scorching mug of tea
and your delicate Indian blanket
you recognize the one from the powwow
you may’t discover wherever else
however what if all this longing is absolutely only a ruse
that shades us from true treasure?
within the form of a willow tree
the place fairies set the desk for teatime
as Ella the Nice Blue Witch arrives
—not out of meanness, you recognize—
even the best of us make errors
or put on footwear ten instances our dimension
everybody scooches two inches to the proper
with simply sufficient room within the center
from a drizzle to a splatter
till we’re all soaking moist
licking moist jam from fingertips
—not from the group, oh no—
however from the they, whoever they are
who would have dominated this world
and satisfied me to remain in mattress
to splash in a fairy tea celebration
subverting their prescription
and smile up on the downpour
A poem by Amber Byers, 2025
