I chose Ireland in winter because it was wet,
following the siren song of saturation—my love

for a summer deluge or tepid spring showers
or even a cold downpour in fall, moisture

that found the cave dwellings in your skin
and settled there, making your hair do a jig

and softening the intake of breath.
Such rain affinity, I assumed, was a trickle-down trait

from Galway forebears that would let me bond
with the island as soon as I stepped off the plane

and into the mist, but it took months to shift
from spilled out to stirred in. Then I belonged

to the drops that dampened rooftop and sweater.
The part left behind when I returned home

is pattering down the road in the drizzle
to tumble into a café with students

who played mandolin and penny whistle after class
and let me stick to them like a stray cat

as we drank pot upon pot of breakfast tea
brewed the way I still do it decades later: letting leaves

sink and infuse hot water, telling a few jokes,
then pouring the umber liquid through a strainer.

The scene grows stronger as it steeps—rain darkening
the street, elbows, wet wool, bursts of laughter.