It sounds like a room of tiny bells,
the wind coming in
through a small, stained window
Butterfly shells pucker their lips
and recede
White birds bury orange beaks
in the folds of their chests
We are in a rounded world
sun setting into darkened line
between water and air
You are wearing rose
on your wrists, in your hair
And I
am staring as the clouds swallow
the sun whole
It rains, and all for you,
Of course, when it falls
It lands in tea cups, blue rims,
Bottoms curved and tipping,
Water collecting in puddles,
And tea cups lifting,
Pushed along by thin
Streams, and it is, after all,
For you to see, to comment on,
To wink at, to sketch
In a wooden notebook,
And for me, to watch the pavement,
The ants, as I imagine them,
Slowly wash away, to count
How many drops it takes
To tip it all over, or, how many
To keep the bottom
Firmly rooted
To the ground.
