Your hands have grown,
so I can’t compare you to the rain.
Now I count each time you reach
for mine, each time you appear
like a spectre at my side of the bed.

Monday morning, and only worries
hugged me in this weekend’s sleeps.
     I fear this is the end--
After all, a kiss can’t stop
a thunderstorm’s eye from cycling.

Sigh. Number 9 of 30 Poems in November to benefit Center for New Americans!