One of the hardest things
in the world to lift is a jar
of rain filled from the last
monsoon; or the fine, electric net
threaded of cricket cries over a field.
When you were young, you hardly noticed
the splendor fading light could give
to ragged skies, the way small
craft at the pier threatened to come
untethered in a squall. Now, the sound
of thunder is the hoof of the first
horseman striking stone. Quickly,
you gather the brightly patterned cloths
that you were counting and folding to give
away: deeply tinted orchids, careful beads
bursting their brightest blue and yellow.