Before we left, the evening rain stopped.
And when we crossed the street to the park,
the cars stopped. And when we came upon
a soccer game, the men evaporated
to Drumlin’s pub around the block. And where
we sat the wind stopped for us, and when
we began to whisper love songs to each other,
the dogs and children scattered and were gone.
For the fern works in mysterious ways:
the clover curled out for us to rest on
and was ready for our weight, and we were happy—
and when we wanted more time, dry,
full-bellied, warm in each other’s arms,
how surprised were we when our watches stopped.