Concomitant without parallel, we walk again,
Dance well behind the continental shelf of utterance,
That which we know to be true.
A wedding of reticent decisions made knowing
Full well a sweat on my brow was forming, just her
Look brings cool on a hot summer day.
Her rainstorms purge all the Gulf air into
My New York, while a burning sun hides under concrete clouds,
Gray stellar beings tearing at the thought of air.
But, like her, those same drops of water give life to me,
Becoming vapor long enough to know that
Hidden clouds don’t cry.
© K. James Ribble