{for the rain, with its ‘such small hands’}



It matters
what we said
between these droplets,
before the storm
before that violent sky cracked open
before the thunder stole our voice.

We held
pools, lakes, oceans
in hesitant palms, wondered
at their depth. We traveled
eons in silence, closed fingers
…………………(church, steeple)
craving petal, snow.

We know
now how to sing
to the clamor
of tin roofs, hum
the whisper of
stolen wind.





Inspired by this poem by E.E. Cummings. 
Because in April, we poem





This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Use your words.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.