The summer baked the earth so that the grass

crunched when we walked upon it, sweating in

three-digit heat; haze wreathed the lonely stars

as she kissed me goodbye on soft asphalt

                                  and now the rain comes.

Deep cracks carved wounds in the earth beside the pools

where I trod yellow grass and watched birds swoop

for fish, pure white against the cloudless sky,

and I wished someone shared the sight with me

                                  and now the rain comes.

Pewter clouds mute the colors of the trees

that slowly morph from green to rainbow and

grass resurrects itself in clean fresh green

now that clouds cover the land and ring the moon

                                  and now the rain comes.

The window shows the droplets falling on

plumb lines and frames your chaste profile as pure

as fresh-washed stone and joy permeates me

like water soaks into the thirsty ground

                                  and now the rain comes.