Cards in the Rain

I hear children's voices,
distant thunder,
rain hitting the tin roof
as you move across the yard
toward me. I hold myself back
from running to you.

It seems odd, your using
the old stone steps
that no one knows about.
You take my hand
and we run through the rain
toward them,
to your house.

You ease down the hall
and through rooms
with musty furniture
and unlit lamps,
where shadows chase me
to a place I cannot leave.
You take me in,
and the game begins.

II.

The year your house sold,
you didn't come back.
I waited for you by the
old stone steps.

III.

Today all is quiet
until a car door closes
and I awake
to suffocating heat
and children's voices.
No longer afraid,
I move into your arms.

What part of this is real?

You whisper, "Call any time."
The wind blows. Cards are
flipping, turning,
until all but one scatter
across the yard. I bend
and turn that card.

The day we met was clear,
blue, hot. As I rode past
your house, you yelled to me
from your brother's car.
I held myself back.

--Barbara R. Sheeley