Rain or so the sky stained cloud; it was
the wind (your trail) made flowered,
dew grass, butter root and shallow
bowls of soil spring.
I hear the thunder, resonant and rich,
your speaking weighs the blue light
down, travelling to some high point
I don't appear to love you only when
I cease to dream; a storm is coming,
heading home relentlessly. Rain or so
the sky stained cloud-
it was the wind.