LIKE SHOWER OVER THE HEART... by JANE MILLER

Like shower over the heart muscle and, after rain, summer. Peaches and rose.
A steam bath for the earth, Chinese massage, long silver pins drawn the great
distance of daylight from handclouds into trees standing on their heads, roots.
Waterwheel over the terraced vertebrae, earthface rosfi tanning toward the
many the long the most generous hours of light that today rain, yet light, the
lightest gray, gray apple-green, gray lilac, white. Solstice of pins, of verticals,
into the haunches of horsehills. Tongues in puddles. Hours in twos and threes,
hours in elongated seconds, thick sentences taut and thinning into words and
finally breaking into alphabet, moments without shadow, the long spaces
between lights in a countryside going to sleep in even daylight from the rain,
and the different lamps meeting in the evening making gold the gray, buttering
the houses in small swatches as if they were children holding out their pieces
of bread, watching the last light perforate the darkness and not admit to it, no
it shall never, happy soul, winter.

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