Under the dim grey sky of an early evening
in September, that mountain sky
when air rests across the surface of the world
and strays on the body like cold,
unremarkable sweat,
you question the validity of new growth,
an apparent urgency
to fresh lime leaves unfurling from the tips
of branches, knee-high grass left uncut for seeding
heavy under the pressure of damp,
point out to me the raindrops
resting on leaves of grass like indian mirrors
sprayed out across the yard.

This one, like them all,
held against the green verge by asymptotes
of gravity and friction, the fabric of living
and falling into the earth as a pebble
or circle of life
seems larger than the rest,
the dark green shadow of the world
and weight of the sky
turned as an eyeball to eyes
we bring and strain through the matter
of belonging, here, against
the matter of not belonging,
the strain of accomplishment, the names
we share and pretend again to forget.

When night falls, again,
forgetting the air that thickens
from nowhere into rain,
the raindrop gathers dark
into its gentle, impressive detail
and symmetry, the broad grass leaves
sink to the ground and emerge
as a field of black hands
sprouting from the torso and blood
and aeons of waiting for day.
We stay to see the first lamp
flicker away on the street,
eyes watching the rain as it slides
through arteries of light
to our feet, and then, to the deepening clay.