A bucket not for rain,
but for seeds that clung,
needle-like, to your skirt
on our walk this afternoon.
We stretch the fabric
between us, plucking
and dropping seed after seed,
remembering the ridiculous
fear we felt when the sound
of hooves on damp ground
invaded our meandering.
We fled to the closest hill
to see what was coming:
over two dozen cows
driven by a small boy.
Now in your room we laugh
at what forced us to hold
hands together. Outside,
a movie plays to a silent crowd
in the plaza. Lightning
competing with the show,
then a downpour. Umbrellas
like black mushrooms
sprout on the benches.
Our fingers feeling the point
of each seed on the fabric
as your room gathers in the dark.