Remembering the Rain

Still I have the faint and lingering sense
that I am not alone; and I am sure
that just as we forget some real events
so we remember some that never were.

When I evoke the memory of the rain
that shooed me from my garden yesterday,
I hear your footsteps on the soft terrain
and follow as you turn to run away.

I duck into the shelter of a tree –
I feel your very breath — of that I’m sure –
and in the sudden rain I hear you speak
in aphoristic words that never were.

Of twining sweet peas dressed in summer hues,
they grow, you say, like fire goes up a fuse.