Virga

I drive along the hot summer road, through
the tree-studded hills.

I see the dark dots of oaks, the
wispy, light green leaves of the hardening mesquites.

          (does she think of me?)

I smell the hot asphalt of the road.
I see sunflowers, and fields wanting to crawl under themselves.

I think of my pillow,
and of children no one has ever borne, yet.

          (does she think of me?)

Shall I say what I see and feel and smell?
I see a sheet of rain, falling from that cloud, over there.

The cloud is dark, like a pillow in twilight, and the rain,
like the long skirts you love to wear, does not touch the ground.

          (do you think of me?)

Instead, it evaporates, leaving only a hint of coolness,
and the odor of flowers blooming in water.

Yes: the long silky dress, never
touching the ground.

          (you do, don’t you?)

I see the tall grass, the sunflowers.
In my dream this morning,

I barely heard the whisper, in my ears:
“We fritter our lives away, and die alone.”

          (I think of you.)

~