Roses drip gray morning rain.
I approach the day on foot.
In the cool damp, my body inhales the aroma of mown grass.
A passerby seems to take no notice of the weather, of me.
Her coat is open.
I could speak to her.
There is something, the patterns in things;
scarlet blossoms framed by yellow jasmine,
liquid flutelike tones of tangerine orioles,
the soft, homey bell of windchimes.
alignments in sound and color,
all so precisely beautiful.
There is language for this precision.
What can it sound like in the places
where killing goes on as usual?
Something like our usual discourse
or a different species altogether?
And what species of language should I use
for this day, all awash in supple gray, indifference,
lit up by the yellow and purple lightning strikes of Spring?
What words shall I use to speak to you about a walk in the rain?