RainThis morning, it is raining
in my country.
Water slides down
the leaves,
like tongue on skin.
The sound of their falling
collects,
like breath on the lobes
of ears.
You are a continent away.
There, the leaves are beginning
to turn.
Soon night will steal hours
from day,
and snow will be whirling
in drifts.
But you are here,
in the country
of my mind,
wiping away the maps
of mist
on the window pane,
lying in bed beside me,
as the pulse of the pillows and sheets—
even the very throb of rain—
begins to quicken.
