The sky fell upon them,
sodden underbelly
a vast, gray filet,
the sea darkening to slate,
churning waters flecked
with saline spittle.
She was in the garden,
kneeling on the grass
with her shears, gathering summer
into a broad, petal-shaped basket,
which, in colder months,
would serve to carry kindling.
In bloom now: hydrangeas,
lush scoops of periwinkle
and, her favorite, pink
the exact shade
of strawberry ice cream,
bushes sagging, heavy heads
nodding under their burden.
He stepped through the gate
just as the clouds let go,
releasing a torrential
exhalation of wind and water,
drenching the turbid world
in an instant.
Three steps—he was at her side,
reaching simultaneously for her
and for the basket’s grip.
Their wet hands met, clean
and muddy fingers intertwined,
As she rose, squinting at him
through sheets of rain, smiling,
iron-gray licks of hair
glued to her cheeks,
each raindrop seemed to pause,
silent, suspended.
And he realized that, to him,
she had never looked more vibrant,
more beautiful. Joy curled
and swelled in his veins.
Then, with a whoop of exhilaration,
she took off running,
toward the house.
(c) 2017, by Hannah Six
