Clouds hang heavy,
sagging low like teats -
rain is set to spill.
The clean, unfamiliar
smell a friendly warning,
the way you sigh, roused
before the shrill cry
of the alarm, the way
my mother would wake me.
Days like this,
wherever I am,
I am there.
Dew on the grass is
destined for a reunion
with its cousins.
I hear the hum of
a day not fully
realized.
Coffee makers sputter
and hiss, a flower
relaxes a tight bud
self-consciously,
the cat wearily rubs
against my chair
at the table.
The pregnant sky
grumbles.
We all wait
to be delivered.
