Night, leaves layered 
in black puddles, the rain 
driving down more—
catalpa, maple, hickory, 
elm—I think elms 
were still around. But I can’t 
find in my view of that night 
why I am waiting alone 
as you, under your umbrella, 
move unnoticed toward me. 
You must be shimmering 
like all else around. 
And somehow you know 
to search for me through the rain 
after singing at the service. 
Your fingers startle me, 
tapping my spotted 
steamy window, 
which I lower 
so our warmths can meet. 
Quick water drops leap in. 
With visible breath 
you give me words 
anyone would want, 
no one could confuse. 
I see myself sitting silent. 
You turn. You step 
away among flat, wet leaves 
and grow small beneath the trees. 
Drops on my window 
pass you along, 
one to another. 
They split you into blue, gray 
and green. Until you 
become the night. 

—From Camera Obscura (Wordcraft of Oregon, 2007)