I. Beyond the open dormer, high boughs of trees stir.
Your voice is in the green leaves,
In the mingled limbs moving, stirred by fluid air
Flowing past the casement, touching eyelid and cheek. Shoulder.
Caress of ephemeral particles which only perhaps, yet in my mind
Brushed across your own skin at some previous, unknowable moment.
II. Rain comes.
How many drops were condensed from your sea,
Sent onward from spray of plunging bow, delivered by the wind?
Blurring sight turns out past distance, through time,
Patchworking visions real, desired, remembered, imagined.
The very scent of the air is as bracing as your mind
But its touch is as gentle as your hands.
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