They say rain will come tomorrow
but I sense it will arrive overnight,
and before the newly birthed day
looks up to find it has become morning
– during the intimate crevice between
ends and beginnings – I may wake
to the sound of the earth
washing itself in the dark.
This is what my bones say.
I am woman.
I feel what is to come.

And you: will you return?
The child thumping across my chest,
bending my ribs, a streak
of anxious wanting coursing in my arms
says this is not the time to plant,
when the soil still needs turning.
Again, I wake in the motionless hours
and consider the intimate spaces.
I long for them as ground for rain.
I must wash myself of this.
I am woman.
I feel what is to come.