The midnight rainstorm through windowed walls,
Sliver of lightning in lowlight, May’s dazzling slice
Through spring’s last days: lovers lay down
Their clothes, follow April to bed, wizened
Toward caramel hours collecting dust, cottage
Sill brimming with pies cooling. You should find
Your house whole on a bed of buttercups,
Field of fleabane, maybe a sinewy thornful patch
Of roses growing round your waist. You should
Take home thin limbs of wending Elms, talling
Trees that stretch your back to see their swaying
Leaftop. You should carry a cupful of rainwater,
Lest you forget the light feeling like petals floating
Flowerful on steaming summer pond. You should
Pack a smart basket of apples. Maybe you will grow
Hungry, glean the ready harvest, ravish ripe rows
Of fields for fullest fruit that falls when wanton
Wind does your work, and you cup your hands to catch
The dying midfall. Maybe you might stir the stars with light
Fingers, cursive and threading, I know because I know.
You should take reds and blues, perchance color
Needs your help. Take a pencil so you’ll never be
Lost, a map to recall these streets. And words,
Take them, so long as you return, and with more.
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