Back in Kentucky, the rains provided
our soundtrack.
In this home, you can’t hear it
at first.

You have to look out to see.

I traded the Commonwealth’s rhythms for a glass door
direct to Central Jersey’s mossy, pine needled land.
The mighty roots that rabbits and squirrels hop over.
The troops of sparrows and the dustings of blackbirds and
the bachelor blue jay, busy with their newsgiving.

More rain pours and the grass here is just as green.
Puddles in every earth become birdbaths.
A pair of cardinals stop by daily
to remind
us of where you and I first met.