yes, there’s a certain sadness
in the tears of a late night rain,
the showers of memories, now
caught in tiny sidewalk ponds—
and I’m stepping around them,
wishing you would call to say
you saw the storm on the news,
them ask about the weather
as if our lives depended on it.
four or five storms have come
and gone since you quit calling,
and I have no one to tell how
the big flakes failed to freeze,
or the big storm never came,
and I’m walking to my car . . .
yes, there’s a certain sadness—
call it the weather of my heart:
an empty wind on a rainy night
trusting that spring will come.