This is the rainy season, like a birth

around our windows. In your open eyes,

and in the heart whose hands, beating inside

my hands, have opened out, we meet the rain.

The quiet sentinels—the trees—unfold

outside the window. Light and cold

go running through the day. In the full tide

that loosens skies to water, in the sea

that comes to find me, I see your eyes,

and, perishing from salt, I dry my eyes.

From Eve