I thought to take you with me in the rain
to ghost the streets of Inglewood
beneath the flowering canopy and remain
beloved, yes, beloved, and somehow, good.
When we put our tongues to the cusp
of all we'd said, we'd find there a bud
thickening with spring's fecund dust.
Vines, spiraled and wet, bright
ferns unfurled and mosses burst
from fragrant dirt. The cloud-mottled light
puny, at first, might make itself a glory
round the trees, silvered and quite
thick. Here, the uncertain sky
will keep us, still. In its long gaze
we'll find the constant of inconstancy.
On earth we're only stowaways
wrapped in rain
pining hearts ablaze,