This March rain has torn drifts of early petals from the trees, and battered them into the gutters. All things retreat, nestling back into the foreskin of winter. Cold water on the earth. Leaves close again, sheltering raw buds. The grays of the sky multiply, divide, add, and subtract the light.
I have never loved you more than I love you this instant.
People talk endlessly about desire, and consummation. But It's the cold rain that wakens the important love; the love of a contracted, shrinking stem of flesh. A love of cold hands, a love that welcomes its own losses.
Raindrops course down my cheeks, run into my mouth. Let the rain speak for me today. Tomorrow in some sheltered place no doubt I will forget everything I know now. But somewhere the rain will still be talking, for those with ears to hear.