to the meadowlark (that I would like to be)

Rain’s lyrical cadence haunts him (Whitman and Eliot too) – but,
it doesn’t dare deposit its wrathful hands on me.

At present, grass is drying (as I lie sighing) beneath a lemon-hued
gorge, overflowing with endless jubilant, unconcealed song.

Clover eyes (blind forever) tumble down over my swarthy skin.
Index finger knuckles brush them away.  Tears remain.

If I stay silently through the night (may it last forever), will you
harbor me within your celestial enemy voice?