Everytime I kissed you, squirrels acrobat in the attic, ghost children at play, voices whisper from floorboards and air vents. I wake fully as rain begins, listen to it hissing in the slick leaves of tulip poplars, a shiny, wind-tied bouquet, tiny wet hands knocking at the window asking to come in. Thunder breaks, crescendo to a ceiling fan’s whir, its spin disturbing the cling of air, cooling skin. Stretching, groaning, I move downstairs, open the front door—tyres splash over puddled asphalt, afterstorm scents swirl in the breeze, ribboned leaves flurry and eddy, postbox nips at my fingers with tin teeth. Sounds blend into cords, bind me here, far from the murmurs of ancestors in dreams.