Today the rain is my companion,
the rain and a volume of Keats
from a second-hand bookstore,
my poet who undertook every sorrow we know,
and whispered to it with heaven’s breath.
With every word and every raindrop—
that falls so softly, it beads on the surface of the water
before breaking and joining its companions—
I can feel myself pressing against the sky,
heart stretching across the open space,
filling the parsecs to the stars,
hoping that in sweet rest,
my poet has reunited with his Bright Star
and remains somewhere in the expanse
to whisper heaven into my grief.