Thaw Amazing, how fast the winter water Gives way to sun, Makes time for warmth, Settles into herself. Tell me — How long your shadow, How deep the sorrow roots, That lay, sodden and hopeful, Awaiting piercing rays? Each day we count the buds, Like rosaries of promise, While under foot The earth remembers Her ancient paths. This is how we stand In the fig garden: Tin-panned and dripdripdrip. February flees like a felon, Breaking hearts in her skip.
Rain, Again It comes like a thought half-formed, pressing its weight into soil, soft hands smoothing edges of the world. Everything bends to listen. The trees bow their slow heads, rooftops hum in low voices, earth swells something like memory— or relief. Water beads along the veins of a leaf, pauses, then lets go. A crow flares black against the pale hush, carries weather in its wings. Somewhere, the angel river stirs, not knowing why. Nothing runs from the rain today. Not the cracked earth, not the sleeping roots, not the tired hands pressed to cold windows. Even the silence stays.
