The rain falls like puzzle pieces
dumped from a satin bag in the
sky. Excited, my son turns each

droplet in his hands, pretends
that they cohere into whales,
elephants, dinosaurs; I upbraid

myself for only seeing water in
the water. Why is it that when
we learn of a death, we ask if it

was sudden or expected, as though
there were less pain in foreknowledge
than surprise? When at last my son

gives up on the rain, he is screaming
at me to fix it, crying the tears of a
worshipper who has yet to learn his

idol’s limitations. Should I tell him now,
or let it dawn on him slowly, like one
who suspects an illness but refuses

an appointment to confirm the
diagnosis? Later, in that lovely
hour when sun and rain twine

like the hands of strangers who
fall in love, instantly, and stroll
a city where time doesn’t exist,

I swear that a Robin emerges,
whole and perfect out of the
crispness of the air, and flies

away, as real as a poem or magma.
Where his wings briefly beat is an
emptiness in the shape of your hand

upon my chest. The floods recede,
reveal love’s hieroglyphs: Will you
decipher them with me, my dear?