by Pattiann Rogers

    This is about no rain in particular，

    just any rain， rain sounding on the roof，

    any roof， slate¹ or wood， tin or clay

    or thatch²， any rain among any trees，

    rain in soft， soundless accumulation，

    gathering³ rather than falling on the fir

    of juniper and cedar⁴， on a lace-community

    of cobwebs， rain clicking off the rigid⁵

    leaves of oaks or magnolias， any kind

    of rain， cold and smelling of ice or rising

    again as steam off hot pavements

    or stilling dust on country roads in August.

    This is about rain as rain possessing

    only the attributes of any rain in general.

    And this is about night， any night

    coming in its same immeasurably gradual

    way， fulfilling expectations in its old

    manner， creating heavens for lovers

    and thieves， taking into itself the scarlet⁶

    of the scarlet sumac， the blue of the blue

    vervain， no specific night， not a night

    of birth or death， not the night forever

    beyond the frightening side of the moon，

    not the night always meeting itself

    at the bottom of the sea， any sea， warm

    and tropical or starless and stormy， night

    meeting night beneath Arctic ice.

    This attends to all nights but no night.

    And this is about wind by itself，

    not winter wind in particular lifting

    the lightest snow off the mountaintop

    into the thinnest air， not wind through

    city streets， pushing people sideways，

    rolling ash cans banging down the block，

    not a prairie wind holding hawks⁷ suspended

    mid-sky， not wind as straining sails

    or as curtains on a spring evening， casually⁸

    in and back over the bed， not wind

    as brother or wind as bully⁹， not a lowing

    wind， not a high howling wind. This is

    about wind solely¹⁰ as pure wind in itself，

    without moment， without witness.

    Therefore this night tonight——

    a midnight of late autumn winds shaking

    the poplars and aspens by the fence， slamming

    doors， rattling the porch swing， whipping

    thundering black rains in gusts across

    the hillsides， in batteries against the windows

    as we lie together listening in the dark， our own

    particular fingers touching——can never

    be a subject of this specific conversation

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