The summer baked the earth so that the grass
crunched when we walked upon it, sweating in
three-digit heat; haze wreathed the lonely stars
as she kissed me goodbye on soft asphalt
and now the rain comes.
Deep cracks carved wounds in the earth beside the pools
where I trod yellow grass and watched birds swoop
for fish, pure white against the cloudless sky,
and I wished someone shared the sight with me
and now the rain comes.
Pewter clouds mute the colors of the trees
that slowly morph from green to rainbow and
grass resurrects itself in clean fresh green
now that clouds cover the land and ring the moon
and now the rain comes.
The window shows the droplets falling on
plumb lines and frames your chaste profile as pure
as fresh-washed stone and joy permeates me
like water soaks into the thirsty ground
and now the rain comes.