I can almost forget how little I know you, but
I know this much:
That is only to say that one morning, we shall hear the sound of wet on dry,
and know that the time has come to abandon reason.
For you see, I hate the rain.
But I will lead you out into showers that, like paint,
spot our wools and satins with deeper shades of color.
I will bow before you, and should
you take my hand, we will dance.
As water collects in the folds of leaves, so shall it be, between
our hands and lips and eyes and hips.
We will hear the laughter of fairies, echoing on moss,
to see the giants pray with bent knees and clasped fingers.
And my eyes will open for a moment in blindness,
lost in the dark rivulets of hair fastened to your skin,
and I will taste your scent the way I know that you will taste mine.
Just don't ask me for meaning.
A poet never lies.