For certain

Because your palms are waiting
And the leaves they crush leave

Impossibly thin trails
In dusty dermal paths 

That demarcate 

The seasons you live to see,

And because the tip of your nose,

And your tired toes

And all that goes

In between
Is tense

In silent prediction.

Because the source of every rumble
Puts you in doubt

And the moody gray above
Makes you persistently peek out,

Because the first drop
Halted patiently to be
Ripe enough to float
It's many miles
For you.

Because the first drop
Will salve the tired dance
Of lashes that measures
In its blinks the wait,

Because you promise yourself
A cross-armed walk,
It will rain
For you.