1/30 2014

1/30

When the rain finally comes,
it will be late.  I will sit, spine against
the cold window, and listen
for you like a child waiting on
his mother - the hushed patter
against the glass a thousand
watches, ticking beneath woolen
blankets.  I think I am wound too
tight for finalities like these;
Southern California agrees and
collectively sighs with the soil,
I can hear it in the lawn outside.
In the morning, I will open the
door and writhe with the worms
on the cement of the driveway - 
our bodies plump and washed
of dirt.  Some will say, "what
elation!" others, "what torment."
We will know it is just the irresistible
unwinding that comes when the
seconds drip past the terminus
and we wake, soaked and new.