Rain or so sky stained cloud; it was
the wind (your trail) made flowered,
mossy grass, butter root and shallow
bowls of soil spring.
I thought of thunder, how resonant
and rich your speaking weighs the blue
light down, travelling to some high point
then burning.
I do not appear to love you only
when I dream; a storm is coming
heading home relentlessly. Rain
or so the sky stained cloud,
it was the wind.
