This is a slightly surreal almost nonsensical poem that makes deep sense, resonating with the child in me. I loved the rain but hated being cold and wet in it. I used to make tents out of scraps of garbage bags just so I could stay out and play in the mud longer without getting cold. Childhood makes things like that less an inconvenience and more of an adventure. I know now I just get cranky when I have to splash through a puddle or get mud on my hands. What went wrong with my life? How did my priorities get so totally ass backward?