Your hands have grown,so I can’t compare you to the rain.Now I count each time you reachfor mine, each time you appearlike a spectre at my side of the bed.Monday morning, and only worrieshugged me in this weekend’s sleeps.I fear this is the end--After all, a kiss can’t stopa thunderstorm’s eye from cycling.
Sigh. Number 9 of 30 Poems in November to benefit Center for New Americans!