two mornings

moon

for two mornings

early, before three,

you are there

above my one maple

who unfolds more easily

than she did last spring.

(is she tired, quietly,

 and after two hundred

 fifty years,

 dying?)

I’ve looked outside

the bedroom window

and your scraped remains—

a hollowed place—

sit and wait.  And

in day, you are higher,

more north, more grey.

The May rain

has returned—

its soft blossoms drop

then spread

on impact and rush

long—puddle or pond

and become

more.  More.

The sun does to them

as it does to you:

push, pull,

illume,

let

go—

It seems everything

falls away from it.

And is then called back.

But rain, falling up,

imbues the rain

falling down,

and the hue

is only glimpsed in skin.

In such rain is the one

 who rises

  to greet you, far gone

guest, finally conceding?

Falling at your feet?  You,

jailed one, may see

a key, held steady

between the

fingers unfolding,

palm facing the rain.

The whole body

could pass through

such panes…

but the nimbus

is in the pause, is in

the waiting out the rain,

who's yesterdays stain

beneath the feet,

 that bleaches everything clean,

clean, the key decreasing

as though it never was,

until the wet and dry

are open eyed

like a morning window 

flung wide,

the cloudless sky

easily going new.