There will come soft rains, and over the hill comes Adam
Long blonde
Dreadlocks touching shoulderblades
Shoulderblades sprouting wings
He touches his cheek and
Laughs at my
childish nature
He touches my hand and
Nods in approval of the calluses he finds
Evidence of hours spent in back yards, waiting rooms, parking lots,
Trying to turn lifeless
objects
Into
dance of light and life.
He touches his hair
"It's getting too long but I don't want to cut it."