Praise the rains that kiss our cheeks,
praise the faintest smell of dust adrift
and the sand that gathers moist.
Praise the flight to open yards draped in hung out sheets
or to rooms with stretched out arms,
window frames the brim to coming storms
Praise the march to fallow grounds of booted troops,
armed to teeth with tools of Midas' touch
Praise the new found chill
in little taps of heaven's tears,
the grief has long been borne let her pour her soul.