1.
It is the slow rumble of distant thunderÂ
on a summer evening
thick with lilac and lavender.
It is clean, white, billowing sheets on the line,
the smell of them,
the ritual folding of them,
arms outstretched,Â
clothespins held in the teeth.
It is the bumblebee rising out of the poppy,
 hind legs fat with pollen
up over the fence and gone,
And now, lightning in the southern sky,
the crows going quiet.
2.
It is also the fist of your anger,
the tightrope of your fear
and the dead world of your boredom.
It is the space between us,
empty and overflowing,
neither yours nor mine.
Not there, but here.
Not then, but now.
It is closer, much closer than a kiss.
3.
It is not you who looks for this.
It is never you.
There is a fire inside you,
It found you long ago.
Do you doubt it?
(Your doubt is the flame).
4.
In the night, the wind-
you are awake, listening.