March 27, 2017


There is no sound

like the rush

of rain on the roof,

pouring down gutters

on its way back

from where it came.

There is no sight

like the road washed clean

in the morning,

gray clouds reflected

in smooth stones,

the whole world shimmering,

as in a mirror

from the past,

like we see ourselves 

in each other's eyes

when first we call

one another by name.

Only once

can we say it

the first time,

only in memory

can this look

be the same.