To me the most comforting sound

is rain on a tin roof.

In the haymow of an old barn,

or a steel shed,

or a cabin,

or an old adobe

high in the Valley of the Witches

where maybe a bed of rough hewn pine

with the pitch still oozing

and an old worn and torn quilt

from the second hand store in a poor little village,

waits.

A couple of sticks of cedar and piñon

have been lit like incense in the rusted

Ashley tin can stove

and I play naked with my friend

singing Cat Stevens songs

touching and giggling

to the point of bursting

But no further

‘cause she trusts me

not to let her

even though she wants too,

And so do I,

but we won’t

‘cause she’s a team with Patrick

who trusts her.

And she trusts me

to help keep their yoke

firm.

She pushes so hard into me

until we’re as close as two people

ever have been,

ever so close.

Her head nestled in the crook of my arm

where that cool breeze,

that heavy cool breeze

the one that comes with rain

through the cracked window

tickles the hair on my neck

And I smell her above

the cedar stained breeze

immersed,

like a bath of warm cherry wine

And we lay and listen

till our souls can’t take it any more

and sleep as one dream

to the most comforting sound

of rain on a tin roof.