In this hand, I hold the sun
and a season’s worth of rain with
one thunderous storm breaking wild,
shredding a shattering, scattering wind.
In this hand, a soft shimmer of
starlight, wheeling, burning, turning
around a silver moon, waxing gibbous and
then a slight, sliver whispering crescent.
In this hand, a memory
a sweet summer day long since past.
Days and nights cupped in this glass and now
Now, wine will never again be ordinary.