The asking clouds

are singing with aspen and mercy

and begging for stars on rainy nights,

 when the snow looks as hard as tin cans

and beggars steal tomato soup.

The jar of life

echoes to the rhythm of missing those we love.

Joggers move their sinewy bodies

to the middle of the road

to avoid tripping over stoners in the way,

who listen to dupstep over their stolen earphones.

The stoners and the joggers are like magnets,

pulling away from each other.

When rain falls on the homeless

 in the alleys and gutters of time,

 as they look for coins

before returning to their broken cars of homes,

when rain turns to indistinct sleet,

and when angels huddle by their fireplaces—

love’s hard.

When the rain falls on the askers and wonderers and seekers,

 sometimes the rainbow in the watery sky

isn’t enough.