In that spring’s first true gleam, Lightening creased the walls And thunder gathered the rarest of fragrances Into its mouth. The water from my tipped bowl Spilled down a mountain the height of a weed; the breeze Read aloud evening’s first page. It was then that rain rose from the soil And a star descended Through the roots of these words. The evening became brighter, quieter: No minute hand’s clatter broke through; No wheel skidded past. Time became nothing more or less than time. I cast my lines ashore: sang as prow and sail burned, Knowing my bruises would heal. Thoughts that had been tightly woven spun loose. That evening’s warmth lingered on my bare shoulders; The scent of damp loam sweetened the air. In that enormous space, Our past seemed no more than a whisper Sensed at the edge of sleep.