The year was a Saturday in spring free to sleep in breeze and birdsong you were the storm disinterested deadly that swept into town
suddenly without a name silencing the birds gathering the winds raining shadow your eyes
black clouds folding into black clouds me beneath you
searching for shapes now I see a church now I see a wolf now
others would set their tables with candles and matches seal their homes in anticipation of the fury building
who else but me lying in the grass ready to be struck
who else pleading for you to fall but all that fell that day was the night
the ancient flood of shadow to reclaim this transient darkness a silent lake absorbing
a single drop of rain burned clean by the swing of stars like a fog exhausted you were gone before
the sun rose resolute through the blue summer morning church bells ringing
white as ghosts echoing over reflections in the puddles you never left me
The rain fell hard and I couldn’t sleep so I dreamt about the rain. I dreamt about the rain in a tree, the tree that would stretch to catch your key amongst the drops, all the drops, but I never dropped your key. Not when you dropped it to me.
Through the window of the loft the breeze rolls damp and dark and soft over your pillow, your picture, your glove still on my chair.
And the cars say “hush” in their morning rush, and you could be anywhere.
-- Michael San Filippo works in non-profit communications in suburban Chicago. His poetry, photography, and short fiction have appeared in Curbside Splendor, In Between Altered States, and Liquid Whale’s Tails. He hopes you’re having a great day.