Time sinks through moraines until
it finds bedrock like rain slowly
settles into a parched landscape.
Last month when we drank water
I wondered when we were
drinking–a day in 1969,
rain falling on asphalt like music,
or restless wind shuffling memories,
a deck of 51 cards a fortune teller
reads? Today sunshine spins around
me as I dance to call rain
from the treetops where it sits, raptor.
Do you remember? I wore purples
and white. We made love and the moon
bowed to the sun, laughed and said, brother.