Pronaos

feeling into the fourth morning
of absence, a quartered series
of beds looking empty on
your side of my days. the rain
just comes and comes,
drenching and soaking,
making the supple earth dark,
the soil prolific, the growth justified;
the protracted careful listening
for the sound, the click of the porch
light turning off, like secrets on
eardrums, but it is still bright when
I wake the next morning, a small lamp
in the dull gray aurora, sun-masked
and filled with birdsong. Each day
I go out looking in temples
for you, among lilacs, among daffodils,
up mountains, down highways, through
windowpanes and windshields;
one by one I feel sentences
unraveling, punctuation means
nothing but a set percussion,
like the thunder: like doors closing.