Dark branches veining into gray skies.
I always miss the moment
pink blossoms flood their arms.
Shift in the winds. Your eyes
grow soft and rest, hushed, on the air before me.
Sun on a newly-wet hillside.
The storms have been especially sudden
this year, gulls giving us hardly any warning,
wild pirouetting through skies split
by sunlight and darkness, before clouds break
into water, wring sudden rivers on us.
You take off your jacket just so,
sweeping light through me.
Any plausible action wrested from the mundane.
Trembling all down my skin.
The faint aroma. The brief bloom.
When I face you, I can almost taste the coming rains.