by Heidi Williamson
What waters our bodies have received
—each filament of rain
coursing the length of our skin
lies undiscovered now at this dark hour.
In here, the night is quiet and cool. Outside,
the wild rain courts the grass: even in the dark
I feel its greening—the grass glossed like keratin smoothly
anchoring, protecting the dust of us.
I lean against the solidity of your clement body
soft with sleep, lean in to you. On your arm, your hand,
each tiny hair responds to my disclosing touch.
The territory of your body grounds me, strands me.
The grass has craved this all day:
the phantom rain fell too lightly to reach land,
the heavy sun striking out
droplets as they formed.
Above all, my uncontrollable heart
coils wild as the wild rain outside
springing right back up again
from the earth where it belongs.