When it rains

When it rains

When it rains the air turns wet grey and spirits of future 

children and animals hide in stump holes and in hollow

trees that are always hidden in fog or dense misty rain

and the sun communes with itself above the solid clouds

and toys with our anxious wait for its return, your full trance-

inducing colors shine radiantly and all grey is

subsumed in light-fueled reds and blues and yellows that blend their 

refractions into a purity of light as only

felt or even barely sensed from our darkness. And yet, just 

yesterday, your hair shone gold in the sun of a false spring

in February as you leaned in and smiled, and all this 

pleasure was physical and more, and we spoke of art and 

politics and music, and all was grounded in word and 

flesh, and early pollen of a false spring saturated

the air in the distance between our table just outside

a restaurant door framed by old stone planters of flowers, 

old heirloom varieties, shining yellows and reds, and

the darkness. But it never darkened our conversation, 

and we continued to talk into late evening, and in

those long hours the play of our dialogue generated

light, and we awoke together this morning into our 

impenetrable lonelinesses as it began to

rain and the air turned a wet grey. The spirits of future 

children and animals kept to stump holes and hollow trees. 

Yet, today, your hair shone gold in the sun of a false spring.