Every morning is full
of rain in the heart of winter.
The drops clatter on the roof like faraway chimes of goodbye,
the wind, whispering, nudges them with its words.
The fugitive heart of the wind
beating with loving silence in the clouds of our hair.
I like for us to be silent and let
our eyes say everything.
Yours tell mine how to remember you before you were,
mine guide yours to read your name in letters of smoke among the stars in my soul.
So much dies between the lips and the voice, something,
of sparks and wings, of sorrow and oblivion.
Suddenly the rain surges and scrabbles at the window.
Let us see how many skies we can press into every trembling drop,
and when the sun burns through each one,
the way a shadow cannot take on weight,
we speak only in terms of light.