Not that the distant sound of my heart
would ever be confused with the sound
of raindrops trying
to miss every leaf of the tree above my house
before their fusion, exploding to death
on my rusting metal roof,
nor with the faint moaning
of the early morning train along the waterfront,
its cries transmitted through the wires of pre-dawn fog,
nor is its aural quality as pleasant as
the tolling of a distant bell marking the passing hours.
But differences are lost in predictability:
the knowing that clouds ripe with rain will soon produce,
that the summer sun at midday in a cloudless sky
will bake the ground and paint the dying grass yellow-brown,
that given time the summer will parcel itself
and litter the ground with so many tokens left
to convince the skeptic, frosty nights
that leaves will grow again.