Nothing is sure for me
it seems. No solid answer holds me
hard as darkness or a rage that is defined
as glass, as black against russet,
as a boulder jutting out above a high creek.
Colors run together, bleed
soft at the edges of each other's hues.
A form is transformed, something figure
becomes ground. You fall gently on me like the rain.
I get soft and porous. There is no culpability,
it's just that trees grow well in warm moist earth.
It's just that flowers and new green leaves
are always worth waiting for each spring.
It's just that all the places you abide
within me dance. Of this
I am certain.
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