Sometimes it's the streaks drawn patiently by hand, slanting across lined paper. Or a filigree crown that sparkles above an open umbrella. You've known its generous waterfalls, its unspoken orders to stay under the covers. There's no escaping it, not even when the sun is high in the sky: somewhere there are clouds gathering whatever the earth exhales as water— a tribe of women stirring, seemingly not tired after months and months of tending their vessels. When they rest, it's then that the rain can be tender; can mean they never meant to destroy anything in you.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.