I watch the sky,
listen for you in the wind,
shake out my hair, open my shirt,
let rain have its way.
Shy clouds cover their eyes.
I pick up a pleasurable stone,
one you might choose to skip;
suck April from it,
taste distant fault lines,
hold it in the roof of my mouth.
I find a lone feather,
think how it floated down,
like a sleek ghost
from something wild, airborne.
Looks right in my hair.
I wait for light to change,
this stubborn season to end,
for a massive earthquake
to come to my assistance.
