Sudden Annealing on a Day of Dark Rain

All day in search of a poem to allege the hours
lived or measured. With my back set against the wall
of rain and my mind divided: Inquisitor.
Interrogated. Nothing. Not even the thunder
is something. Not even the buds of rain
on the naked trees that might have been opals
are something until, from another room
behind my room, the song you’re playing,
some indication of guitar, an offhand
kindness. Like yesterday when I recognized
a tenderness in you accepting the small stuffed
bear a child offered for no one else’s sake.