You’re not made of sugar, she says
when it’s raining.
She can see me not melting.
You’re not made of sugar, she says
when it’s raining.
She can see me not melting.
It’s not at all but
I’ll say it, like
open-heart
surgery
and not in rivulets
but sheets
and who knew
the pavement sloped down?
Of why you wait
and the things that you say.
What was that trick
you did with the rain –
swirling to scatter
leaves, but no matter,
one day you’ll keep
your promise again?
Muddy furrows thoroughly filled –
the yard’s a lake.
You came across,
you in your boots
and green wax coat.
You had the mail,
the first in weeks.
The sun was shining then,
except for the clouds,
and where it was shallow
the grass poked through.
Is the lilac’s share?
More than you think.
More than you think
she’d allow.