We had a crazy rainstorm this afternoon, and as I ran across the parking lot to my car after work, this poem tapped its fingers on my brain. I’m no poet. That honor belongs to my Nana. But I offer up this little verse anyway. Call it a gift — one to inspire all of you more talented poets to listen for tapping fingers. Rainstorm Rain sings down around me; I hear your dancing feet On warmer, dryer pavement Through colorful, faraway streets. Rain sings down around me; I see your laughing eyes With stories weaved like fairytales Or a scoundrel’s alibis. Rain sings down around me; I know this…