Birds perched on her shoulder,
snakes curled in her arms.
She limned the spirit of stones
by their shape, size and heft.

We puzzled over
Asphodel, That Greeny Flower
on the bank of the Iowa River,
green as the hills from Galway to Dublin.

Thunder rumbled.

We ran to a lone phone booth.
Rain gushed down, windows fogged
in an intimacy of flashing lights
and oak-cleaving thunderbolts.

Her fingers inquired, pulling, and pushing,
testing the limits.
Like Helen Keller, her touch
reconnoitered the world of my hand.

Dreaming or awake, all I know now
is whenever it rains, I’m ready to mate.