The music of a freshly fallen rain
comes in the window. The extending crop
of sugarcane has rows like the quatrains
of an older sonnet. I can hear the drops
collect on the soft leaves before they stop
when they hit the ground. The drops that fall
in patterns from her breast, the little loops
of hair that glow in the light that spills
over her shoulders. I hide from a squall
and light another candle as the water
rises. The line of showers has stalled
above us and I move about to gather
blankets. She moves as if without form
through the phrasing of a thunderstorm.
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