The monotony of leaves,
and the pedantry of tulips
disguise a coming torrent.

The wind is a clarinet,
the sun a trombone,
my idea of them a sonnet.

I watch an old woman, eyes
like shadows in a desert,
staring at my pomegranate tree.

What can we know? And how
can we really know it?
The sky is purple, darkening
for rain. Miles away, thunder
cracks. Then the clouds move on,
and the day moves forward.

I live in between those moments.