Water from Heaven

When it rains again,
when the pine trees bristle and dance,
when the begonias in the thirsty garden sigh--
I am reminded of your singing,
your dancing unencumbered tongue,
your lilting, whispered fingertips--
in every rain-drop beating on the roof,
in the random rhythms beating on the roof,
inside looking out onto the patio.
Where you would sit and watch the rain come down.
Where you would sit with our thirsty flower-bed.
Where you would sit and become wet.