The rain does not remind me of you,
or how I yearn to warm the air between us.
drizzles on a March afternoon,
as the season begins to parade through
in her sweet mango summer dress,
mocking my weeping
of dreamsoaked hope.
The slant in the eye of the dawning cloud-barrier
reveals a hint of the already late sun.
Maybe: when this is all over,
hope soaked in dreams
of sun that yearns to warm.
Sure enough. Soon enough. True enough.