Rain
for Erika

Winter extends its ennui
into the promise of Spring,
stolen music: our hearts
become thin with the rain.

We are children with old skin.
Nestling together on the couch
we listen to the falling
of rain and do not speak.

Music that once spoke for us
has found its silence. Left us
to struggle with the language
of body, the insistence of its memory.

There is a peace within the storm
(in quietest moments)
our stuttering hands will find.