Rain in April

[Petrarchan Sonnet]

In a tropical month of the fourth
There is but a wind as gentle as brush
and old pasture would be the new lush
Bringing a set of tiny footsteps forth

But the heat can be that of west by north
When water is pulled with an upward flush
Then below again, an alien of gush
A repeat from before the month of the fourth

Though there I see the pitter-patter
that challenge the steam like unflinching geese

As the cold absence of usual chatter
warm the chill with the tropic and her fleece

Thus when the ardent sky makes a splatter
It is not for flooding, but for release

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Serenity Exists in Silent Places

“Do you like the darkness?” I ask.

She takes a sip of her tea in the black. It is the only sound she makes before she whispers, “Yes.”

She says nothing for a second, then a minute, then an hour. Soon, we are engulfed in her darkness.

I Know Your Hue

I see your gray
A deadly cloud
Pale on vivid mornings
Heavy on lifeless mournings

I taste your pink
A sweet watermelon
Never pungent as strawberry
Always bland and watery

I hear your blue
A steady river
Peaceful rocks sleep on the bed
Silent as if no word has been said

I smell your red
An ancient wine
Prunes, peppers, plums, and cherries
Home to so many memories

I feel your black
Pitch-dark tar
Vicious, as I drench my hand in pain
Terrifying, only to know it leaves a stain