Like Rain

         If beauty made noise, it would sound like rain. I would walk the streets and let it hit me. I would carry pails and catch it by the bucketful.

         At the crack of thunder, I’d grab my Herbal Essences and a loofah, strip my clothes, and bathe in the nude between 5^th and Broadway.

         I would come back inside looking like Beyonce.

         But beauty doesn’t wear a collar of bells. You cannot hear it coming. Beauty rises silently with the sun. It stills itself in puddles on the fingertips of a heartbroken girl. It materializes in mirrors in front of those who do not see it.

         If you’re real quiet you can almost catch it.

         It’s like listening for hooves of reindeer on a rooftop. It sounds like Hachiko’s endless paw steps on his way to Shibuya Station.  It sounds like the click of a camera. It sounds like a cloud walking. It sounds like blood running through veins. It sounds like a heartbeat of a lover an ocean away. It sounds like sand art. It sounds like the shake of a Magic 8 Ball. It sounds like a snowflake. It sounds like a breath.