Birdcall in the April rain is more than you or me.

We always whisper in the morning light
as if the demons outside the door might
hear our secrets, but they’ve been replaced
by sparrows and thrushes who sing us
untranslatable songs.

Later, earthworms will crawl out
of their flooded realm, searching for asylum.
Their dead bodies will outline the pavement
and the birds (noisier than ever)
will devour this life once from my garden.
The narcissi will shine like children.

Beating down in Gregorian imperfection,
these torrents uproot trees and overflow rivers,
displace deer and slaughter Spring,
wash away the residue from the edges of my heart
so that I might start anew.

Unaware of anything but your foot against mine,
this room smells of black tea and day old candle wax.

Outside, the rain spirals on in fractal repetition.