raindrops always sound like home

they say you're only lonesome when it rains

something about the gods weeping

but I don't think that's true

raindrops always sound like home to me

not just any house, you see

but that deep place in your center

where tiger lilies march with cat eyes

and caterpillars burst forth with wings

where you have a hot mug of tea

and your soft Indian blanket

you know the one from the powwow

you can't find anywhere else

but what if all this longing is really just a ruse

that shades us from true treasure?

so when I shake it off

I'm left alone standing

under a wide umbrella

in the shape of a willow tree

where fairies set the table for teatime

and a hush descends

as Ella the Great Blue Witch arrives

knocking chairs over

—not out of meanness, you know—

but simply because

even the greatest of us make mistakes

or wear shoes ten times our size

but it's alright because

everyone scooches two inches to the right

with just enough room in the middle

for hickory berry scones

and smiles

and the rain picks up

from a drizzle to a splatter

until we are all soaking wet

laughing

licking wet jam from fingertips

it is this moment

that I begin to separate

—not from the group, oh no—

but from the they, whoever they are

who would have ruled this world

this wound

and convinced me to stay in bed

warm and dry and fearful

rather than branch out

to splash in a fairy tea party

in true connection

subverting their prescription

and smile up at the downpour

giving thanks

for it all

again

again

again

knowing that I am home

for now

for me

for us

A poem by Amber Byers, 2025