Michael H. Brownstein

My son tastes rain with his fingers,

lets drops ride into his palm
down his wrist.

He never wears rain gear,

likes the glow of wetness

on his hair as if it were a crown.

The scent of water is thick within him,

a storm an action movie,

and he stands tall within all of it,

every puddle a small lake,

his small feet monster squids,

every splash a man o’ war.

Yet, when the rainbow struts the sky

and treasure hides within the clouds,

he welcomes tranquility with equal joy.

My son tastes the sun with his fingers,

lets its warmth ride into his palm

down his wrist.