I
The rain, miles of it between us--
out in the dark, it is lighting
the madrones like oil lamps.
It is pooling in the sloped backs
of old horses left in the fields--
reflecting broken stars there.
It is filling the river in crushes
of yellow, the cutbanks turning rapids
silver as the tongues of deathbells.
It is falling on your roof as you
dream of sadness, or lie awake,
or get a glass of water in the dark kitchen.
II
I love to think of you like this,
in rooms full of private blue light--
living the secret life
that everyone lives. It is love
at its loneliest and most prayerful
to know, for a moment,
that you are in so many ways
as anonymous as a star,
as a wood I will never walk in.
