If it had rained right then/I might have gone out under the trees to be/like the lover and his lover, awash in that murmur/passing like a single flower between them.


Beware what you see beyond sheer Roman shades
pulled halfway down. The rain shower you saw
yourself drenched in scurrying toward the trees
for shelter from the sudden downpour? It did not,
could not dampen the heat that sullen afternoon
in the coffeeshop. But the murmur awash between
those lovers passing like a single flower between
them linger. And I, too, find myself under this tree
shorn still of its leaves but budding (a late spring).

I stayed under that tree, looking in, hoping you
had rushed out and found me there, waiting
with a coat and a misplaced parasol, to catch
you in a thunderstorm that would simply rend
those petals. But I would keep you prim-dry
while you laughed out a soulful surprise: Fancy
seeing us laughing in the rain, hallooing, too,
like lads and lasses running defiantly through
the rain, and not scared to steal a kiss or two.

Two graying heads under a sheer parasol
laughing but afraid the torrent will not stop.
It was good then, when we did not fear the rain.

—Albert B. Casuga