i.

at the edge of a dark sky,
where the framed door
lies closed and the
rain’s smooth octaves
gather the last lonesome
heart-beat of the summer in
its mists that tap the door,

ii.

the grey air,
cloud-drawn, straps
its satchel to its back
its stones the silvers
of a silent moon,

iii.

its stones sombre and smoky,
the dead of night,
a crimson king
a blossoming flower,

iv.

where the night’s slated
roof listens to the rains
urgent rushings, silver
and shaded like a storm,

words of the air
sinking back like the
desolate waves that hush
the sands as they drown
their sorrows in baskets
conjured out of the breath
of the grey-eyed night.

v.

you kiss me and i start to
swoon, i swoon like a garden
rose that climbed once to
the sky, a garden overgrown  
with the quiet of apple-coloured
leaves, the summer with its vines,
its leaves the bright rain drops,
its leaves the visions of the air.

Your eyes are rustic in the morning
contrasting your sun-stained skin to
have a glow about it–perhaps it’s nicotine
   Eight a.m looks good on you, for you
   It’s nice not waking up early alone
It’s nice being conscious of the sun rising together
though we’re still tangled in arms under covers
   It’s just nice to not sleep alone
Though there is such a thing as too much heat
  But I miss it when it’s gone
More specifically your heat
and your scent–slightly nicotine
  and natural morning rust
How is your skin so smooth
and your form robust?
Your breath so gentle, along with your touch
which can play the part of rough when
the heat becomes too much
Your front hugging my back
a situational brushing igniting
blood rushings–like nicotine
I’m not quite hooked but I do like
a taste of you in the morning

I revel in the storm.
Falling into the depths of the clouds' cathedral
The rocketing rain fills my eyes, my ears.
Lightening streaks across the sky
illuminating the hills and hollows
of the great gray mass
that is the storm bank,
awful and beautiful,
terrifyingly lovely.
Thunder follows, a symphony of crashes to give dimension to the scene
as if some godly composer has seen the painted sky
and imagined from it
a song of rolls and bangs.
The rain still pours down
bringing life and flood from the heavens
to earth.
Its clatters and rushings combine with the thunder's song
to fill my ears
with magic.
My eyes cannot bear the wonder of the storm,
yet I cannot turn away.
I am
consumed
obsessed
frenetic
with the insanity and beauty
of the summer storm.
And when it is gone,
I will never be the same.