Rain. A cocoon
come un-
done. Threads drift
across the end
of night & brush
the earth awhile, then
stone arrows fall.
Inside, funny early
morning dreams as rays
of light pierce
the sleeping net & sweet
grass steams
spring clothes slung
over the brass stove.
From nowhere
a silence & I
hear out on the pond
fish whip
their tailfins & slip
down the spill-
way to where
swallows fool
around—flirting, flitting
out & turning
back—just because
they can. Take
a look. Rain-shaken
loose petals cover
everything, but all
I can do is to stare
at the sodden
blossoms still
clinging to
that branch,
smearing its length
red ochre.
