A poem for spring rain

With the Night

Rain has washed the pollen all day – it coats everything and in the arc light on the deck it glows lime green as kelp. I’m liking my boots in the puddles at night when everything is opalescent and moist, the edges fuzzy, my ass sexy in these too-tight jeans but no one sees under my rain slicker. When I reach the magnolia towering in the neighbor’s front yard I stop, listening for the raindrops firing down. I barely get wet standing here so I drop my hood back and look up, up into the mandala of branches forking and reforking against the night sky. In one-point concentration I let her take me in – the vaginal pop and pop of the raindrops down through her leaves bigger than my hands. I’m alive in this spring night, with all my joints loosening, dazed, remembering happiness. Let the rain streak these glasses, I love this night, love my body catching up and what pulls me forward, says watch your step, woman, spring wants you, wants you, wants you.

For spring

Consider Touch it, thought the black unformed, though thought is a crude approximation of how it moved. Long to … love it, the formless- formed murmured. Shape into light was an urge loosening from somewhere, shape into night and day oozed next, and next, and next. Then birdsong coalesced and eyelash turned worlds to storm, and golden, and heights, flight. At the wedding feast, your first thought filled the water jugs with good wine, even as you knew nail, the stone’s cool shelter, and later, their staggering joy. Alone among men, you knew how the unformed furled itself toward us. Red stain upon red stain, the magnetic pull, the restoration.

First Snow Nothing different, nothing rare just this falling everywhere like a shattered, silver crown falling softly, quickly down on the branches of the tree that arched above us. You were holding me again, life returned that fire within, I held my breath, I let it out. Nothing touched us in that room, but later in the open, falling midnight air, the snow seemed perfect, adamant, and fair – I raised the window to stretch my arms toward snow now dusting the stalwart tree grounded there –

and later in the morning light

I'd watch you walk

below me, pacing off your property, caressed by lightest, silver snow, yours, soon melting, soon to go. So what would bind us? Not mere weather -- perhaps the knowledge that once together the thirst we felt could be not quenched by snow, or time, that resolute distance.