There are dark storms in these puddles.
As leaves from an autumn tree fall,
They turn into downward flames;
And the color of blood at my feet
Speaks of misspent offerings.

Oh, all my life I’ve breathed in
Glass droplets, small taxidermy eyes,
Clear marbles so colorless,
Refracting light as I catch them
In my rain-beaten hands.

If only these hail stones
Were wishful stars expelling me
From this garden of rain where I sit—
A child angel awaiting birds