At my rain house, the puddles all spread,
From under it, short streams run.
I stand atop the Temple of Mist;
About me, the mist wreaths my head.
Cupbearers bring me the liquor of life;
The blood-red drink I swallow.
Cast up on the earth as the milk of my making,
The shining road draws the sun.
No more the fields be dry and hollow,
Green shoots no more a-burning.
Swift come the clouds to the Rainsinger’s call;
The spadefoots start their singing.
At the rim of the world the storm it waits,
With thunder and lightning a-borning.
I had my mother teach me to read when I was four, and I've never stopped. Now I can play with words all day long... it's the best job in the world.