She sings with frost on these mornings to bring her voice high.
Each crystalline grass blade a present, a thing for the Sky.
Her epoch valleys carved by the sluice of glaciers and time’s
long stare. She’s hoping their echoes will ring to the Sky.
She makes little fists at the end of each branch. They sound like
silver. With exuberant slowness, she opens in Spring for the Sky.
He gathers up clouds in luminous piles. Certain with sovereignty,
strong as any headwind, hurls a torrent. It flings from the Sky.
His pleasing rain. His gentle rain falling. Scattering on all flowers.
Sliding across all leaves. Devours each lightning sting from the Sky.
I’m learning a secret. I don’t have it yet. This flickering epiphany
evades me. It’s the way the Earth whispers with wings to the Sky.