in love

after the storm
the boat on the mooring
the canoe pulled onto the shore
the world painted clear

the only chipmunk zigs
zagless on the edges of
footpaths between beech
and blueberry bush

close, but still above,
a tentative finch basks
in a twittered question
to his relieved mate

the wind will return
rustling the lips of the water
until her complexion
is no longer perfect

the thunder will return
stealing tender from the tops
of the mountain, until he
booms without ruth

but now, the storm
has passed

the surface is glass
the quiet, holy.