In the Rain

At work in our gardens, we are quiet neighbors out for sunshine and the joy of growing things. Our glances are occasional, furtive, hiding desire, because restraint is prudent when we only think we know each others' minds, but do not really know. Or is it only I that look at you as I dig the ground and build in stone along the terrace wall? Is it only I whose heart silently arranges a meeting of the eyes?

The day is hot, but a noticeable breeze blows high clouds that here and there temper the sun while the light changes to shadow and back again to brilliance. Why we did not notice the clouds blanket the heat is a mystery, but the drops begin to fall-- large and cold.

I gather my tools to put them away in the shed, my head and shoulders quickly wet. On my second trip out, I see how the rain, falling on my work, releases the heat that rises from the rocks. Another mystery, for the sight makes me mindful of you. And then I see you struggling at your back door and realize that you have locked yourself out. I shout for you to take refuge where I am, and then I realize a little late what I have done. For how am I to be in close confines with you without staring, without wanting to touch?

But I hold the door and watch you running to the shed, chased by drenching rain, percussive as it drums upon the roof, crescendo to your speed. The sound primevaI draws you to me.

It is dry and warm in the shed, which still has the smell of new wood. There are clean rags to use as towels, and, to my delight, you let me help you dry your hair. When I see that you are cold and shivering, I offer a sweatshirt I have hung upon a nail, clean and dry. So when you accept it, I turn my back to offer you a moment of modesty.

And when I turn again, I see how long the sweatshirt is on you, but I am not prepared to see so much clothing on the floor. I merely had in mind that you might trade your T-shirt for my sweatshirt; you had in mind a little more. Alone with you in the dim light, I must strain to be the gentleman and keep my thoughts in check. That would be easier if you did not stand so close, easier if I had not thought of you as close as this some recent sultry nights.

That would be a dream only if you did not reach out for me, a dream only if you did not bury yourself against my chest. How do my arms know to envelope you, my lips to fasten yours so quickly? How will I explain the movement of my hands to the tall tulips, to the burgeoning iris. Perhaps the fragrance of the sage upon the hill intoxicates me as my hands clasp and knead the fleshy curve of your bottom, then find under the sweatshirt the naked plane of your back.

You press against me, sweet-mouthed, and I respond with kisses everywhere.

Because you know the moisture of rain, the fruitfulness of earth, I trust you understand the pleasure of my growth. Yes, I am sure that you do when you take me by the hand and lead me on this rainy afternoon to the ladder and the loft above in the shelter of this garden shed.