I miss you less in thunder than its absence
in the way peonies bend when afterwards
the summer rain is left in leaves,in grass.
It’s hard to carry memories, acceptance
silenced in this aftermath of fireworks,
when slugs grow fat in what’s left morassed.
It’s different when love’s expressed in tense
less present, when the curtain’s lacework
blend with milkweed skies, I sense what was.
For Poetics Bloomings summer rain.