The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift,
The road is forlorn all day,
Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift,
And the hoof-prints vanish away.
The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,
Expend their bloom in vain.
Come over the hills and far with me,
And be my love in the rain.
The birds have less to say for themselves
In the wood-world’s torn despair
Than now these numberless years the elves,
Although they are no less there:
All song of the woods is crushed like some
Wild, easily shattered rose.
Come, be my love in the wet woods; come,
Where the boughs rain when it blows.
There is the gale to urge behind
And bruit our singing down,
And the shallow waters aflutter with wind
From which to gather your gown.
What matter if we go clear to the west,
And come not through dry-shod?
For wilding brooch shall wet your breast
The rain-fresh goldenrod.
Oh, never this whelming east wind swells
But it seems like the sea’s return
To the ancient lands where it left the shells
Before the age of the fern;
And it seems like the time when after doubt
Our love came back amain.
Oh, come forth into the storm and rout
And be my love in the rain.
This poem is in the public domain.
I wonder what I’d do
with eight arms, two eyes
& too many ways to give
myself away
see, I only have one heart
& I know loving a woman can make you crawl
out from under yourself, or forget
the kingdom that is your body
& what would you say, octopus?
that you live knowing nobody
can touch you more
than you do already
that you can’t punch anything underwater
so you might as well drape yourself
around it, bring it right up to your mouth
let each suction cup kiss what it finds
that having this many hands
means to hold everything
at once & nothing
to hold you back
that when you split
you turn your blood
blue & pour
out more ocean
that you know heartbreak so well
you remove all your bones
so nothing can kill you.
Copyright © 2025 by Denice Frohman. Published by permission of the author.