The Inconstant Lover

Her words fell like drops of rain
at first gentle and intermittent,
so small they hardly disturbed the skin.
You know how it is, when you wonder
Is it raining or not?
Well, her words were like that,
soft, what he needed after a dry season,
and whispered so gently he couldn't be sure
they were hers or from a fatal transience
she was servant to, intermittently.
He wanted the rain. Pulsing
and unequivocal, warm and cooling
in the same disclosure of meaning.
Ah, more than rain:
surges and waves crashing
against his mind with eluctable clearness.

She said to him,

Here we are one to the other
and this is all you need to know.
The knowledge of raining is slow:
A droplet does not make a certainty.
Do not look to me for precision,
Or the lifting of the fog you're sailing through.
Time will tell water from the feeling of water
Kiss me in the meantime and wish it were so.