{these leaves resemble a hand or wrist turning to me, inspiring me to write this poem. this is merely a draft, a work in progress.}

gravity unfurls
in the dark morning hours.

i lie awake and listen.
with a turning of your wrist,
a rhythm
of ice pellets and rain
pour down our metal roof.

i remember the painting of your face,
as the waters rise in waves around you.

i close my eyes,
balancing the notions of hope and optimism.

to the distant cadence of a silent language,
the robin's voice slides and echoes upon the wet skin of trees.