When the rain comes down

with thunder

on a warm sunny day,

they say

"the devil is beating

his wife",

Those ain't tears.

Graceful, latent,

clouds

sheets hung out to dry

almost touching the quiet

room basking in the sunshine and

turning the wooden

floors into a sea of

shade and light

a hot, dark hand touches

the pale skin of a shoulder or a leg,

warming the back of the neck

where the hairs curl a bit

in dark nursing curves

with grinning breath

and tenderly asks if

she wants a glass of

ice water.

Bones

In the grass that looks like

the fur on a lion's back,

(all tawny and moving in

the breeze)

the candy of your bones is

no doubt a cathedral

for the rest of us tiny

creatures.

VULCAN'S DAUGHTER

Her hands are small but strong.

They grasp the hammer's handle.

Dawn to dusk she weaves her song

with the bellows and the anvil.

Sparks fly 'round her coiled locks

and her eyes reflect the fire.

Her lovely skin hides the chiseled rocks

of her muscles spun like wires.

Some men look for fame and gold

to steer them to their bliss,

but these are all too frail and cold

for one who felt her loving kiss.