Pitter-patter
is an over-rated
word.
No, here
rain is
the brisk showering
of coffee granules,
the first exhale of orange
in the juicer,
the flat slap of
pancakes.
It is the quick pop
of maple syrup,
the streaked
dormer window,
the open snap
of my Mackintosh.
No, here
rain is
the sharp scuff
of feet on gravel,
the wet breath
of you
on my forehead.
Pitter-patter
is the sound
of my heart.
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