for Robert on 19 May 1996
All day the sun shone on my darling’s birthday.
A hot southwest wind blew in the afternoon.
At evening it rained, slowly long drops into the dark.
The porch light attracted a frog, separated
from the chorus in the stream, courting alone,
away from the loving over and over in the water.
Later, the wind blew up a storm and lightning forked
and tore the eastern sky, breaking the air apart
crashing thunder over the frogs in the stream.
The thousands sang on and on about the rain,
about wetness and bogs and everything that flowed.
Their song called to the lightning inside things,
the fingers of water lacing the green reeds.
The little house of spit waved on its blade of grass.
We stayed inside the room, just touching.
woven into the thoughts we wove all day
going to sleep with them,
turned homeward by the night.
Robert W. Reid, 19 May 1937 – 15 June 1997