precip

now and again the rain of regret
peppers my skin with that
slight sting one feels
in a hot, fat rain.
the dash to the car-
or to the house
depending on whether one is
coming or going
leaves them to wonder if
they should grab an umbrella
or just make a run for it
but we always
…always…
run for it.
later on,
forgetting where we came from
where we’ve been
we reach up and run our
hands across our heads
to find raindrops
lost droplets of
heaven
hiding in our hair.
for a split second
we forget-
and we remember-
and we long and
we regret
and we reflect fondly-
and then we wipe our hands
off,
dry
and go on about our day.