It was a perfect storm.
The sun had set so even though
I had seen the earlier clouds there
was no way of measuring the coming rain.
I waited on my roof top for as long as possible,
under a torrent of heart and sky,
the clouds rolling like black fire
with lighting the veins in my eyes.
Back into my bedroom through the
old white window, I lit three candles.
There would be nothing tonight
except the elements. Wax and fire.
The rain began to sound the beauty,
its' fragrance lifting the night
through the still open window,
even now I can still taste the goodness on my lips.
The thunderstorm moved itself
over my skin as Spring's passion,
she kissed without reserve
or care for where I had been.
Raindrops cry from heaven's lovers
weeping their remembrances
when in times of only candle light
they gave themselves over to Love's first desire.
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