through the window, I look at the rain falling on naked trees. In the background, the sky mourns… It reminds me of the inside creases of our paper hearts. We are moving in time, even when the rain has fused our morning and afternoon

silenced our tongues,
focused our lens, zoomed into
water drops resting like sleeping lips
or fingertips over soft skin
or glossy, wide-open eyes.
their soft romance,
born overnight, existing indefinitely
this is a kind of acceptable noisy…
I don’t know how to measure holy.
I don’t know how to articulate holy.
So instead I point and say, “Look, how pretty,
If you were a child you’d be seeing
the drops sparkle…”
and then stepping outside
I think:
“this is a child’s glitter”