Poetry is a smooth stone slipping
Wavering back and forth in the water beneath
And the fall of all in a slow transcendent arc
Until it comes to rest
Finally
Like all poetry
At the end and beneath

My hopes were lower than the floor of city puddles
Until, until
The sunlight came which was your name
And evaporated me into the clouds
And now all that's left is the little sounds
Of the new me falling all around

With a ripple I change
Becoming rain