Sitting up here at night in the rain:
Boots rest on Rose Iron Fence that runs
Round a Balcony we envisioned together;
Steel vines of roses climb each panel.
Lit by a sole street lamp in striped shadow
Cast by the Rail Up-right;
Railing designed for Rosaura, as it were,
And built with other peoples' hands
To form our thoughts into deed.
II.
Water-Dancing Leaves and Strings of Rains flood the air before us.
Street light splashes each leaf, as it flips back up to catch the next drip,
And illuminates each String-Drop of rain, stretching down from heaven,
Spreading the light -- waking the sunken vessels
That slumber in the tree-system roots in muggy soil.
These trees my own hands planted, now shield our front,
Sheltering us from inclemencies of storm and man's prying stare.
Our home, soaked to the bell-bottom pier supports,
Settles in for a season-long struggle for the high ground.
III.
The street below us shines honey-light on wetsphalt,
Glowing like a Dutch impressionist path, alive and pulsing
With a simple life, understated, but present and stretching
Off to the distance as one challenged by angels to serve
A higher need: the ever expanding gaze to the horizon.
Meanwhile, we sit, drinking in peace, the peace that drifts in storm fog,
Unfurls up our road, nears with the rain, waves with the leaves,
And settles into the warm steam rising to our faces from fresh coffee.
We touch hands -- and run our fingers along the railing on our balcony.
