{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.
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