The Storm God took 
a mortal man as lover. 

By all accounts he was 
average. Nothing exceptional. 

He liked to count, to catalogue,
collect. He inventoried 

every part of her, each ridge 
of her teeth, all the folds 

of her flesh. It took his 
whole life to number 

the drops of her from one single  
suprise summer rainstorm. 

He liked to say she must
have known the exact moment

she had slipped from his mind.
So if you are at the park 

on an otherwise perfectly 
sunny day, no chance of rain 

when a drop lands on your back 
runs down your hand, then more 

spit and splatter until you have 
to seek shelter or get soaked 

it’s a blessing for your love 
life, a reminder to think 

of all the parts of your lover 
and strive to know them all.