Looking through eyes
drugged with wonder, like a
child, like a newborn fawn peeking
up from the dusted underbrush.
Looking through eyes at a
summer-dry world in spring.
Destiny comes spilling
down, soft showerheads of mist.
The smell of grass, clean and cut
and framed in unpaved rural roads.
Showerheads of mist rinsing skin
with eye sky-kisses, warm pulses
dripping through the air, suddenly
new. Everything unexampled,
unexplored. Everything
fresh-washed by rain. A first rain.
This is how I feel about you.