I have seen that same movement of air in the modifying
moods of sea
seen from  a crest and immobilized; on clear days and in clouds
paled by wind
on a reproach; and in a woman’s distraction
when she carried herself to awkward seasons
and her room swallowed a strange light; when she is exhausted
not dry, not from burning, but with desire, and things are still moving
but moving less, and she reckoned how many will remain
when she delivered it down to herself through the years,
without a touch, without a thin chord
and her hands have changed it, when until now it is
strangely reserved
like something in perfect stasis, and offhandedly, she says,
“It will rain.”