I let weather into me like a man.
I want thunderstorms to rattle my thighs.
 
The rain brings up the earth,
then the smell of childhood mud pies
 
and the way he looked at me
in the back yard, the bullets of a storm
 
changed to a drizzle where I could see
the water beading in his dark hair.
 
Newness changed into years,
we grow together, two saplings
 
that thrive resilient, hearty
roots long, deep, our clock circles
 
and now I’ve too much past
on my mind, in my dry hands
 
like a snake hissing
quietly as a threatened cat
 
in the dark hallway of the house
 I grew,where I thrived into a woman and found
 
you could grow
your own ghosts.