Rain behind the wind
clears everything.  

The sky’s torn pink
and turquoise, powder blue.  

Swallows curl their arches,
sweeping, calling, eating.  

I saw my shadow, hunched
and limping, awkward, slow.  

Ridiculous, they think I’m old.
I’m just as shy as seventeen.  

When I’m behind my pen,
I’m twice as bold.