All that is left of this morning’s downpour, Are little specks of water congealed on These tall window panes that overlook Taller trees, now pulsing and dark green.

Then what makes you, O heart, turn Insistently to this past dry winter Where the only echoes in your chambers Were of bare branches and meager leavings

Of her passages, back and forth, in and out of your tunnel of sight, sheaves of her hair strung out like that season’s dark and her galleon like body yawing in the cold?

You don’t answer me. Thus the reason for your hankering after this remembrance remains as obscure As the weatherman’s prediction of rain this afternoon Or the opening and closing of a swallowtail butterfly’s wings!