faces

one
of your faces
opens

like a flower, to
the sound
of water

that races
madly over cliffs, after a shower

one of your faces
is shut
and reflects the moon

you say you would rather
the rain did not ruffle your petals

you have had quite enough
of seasons

see, how well you have hardened
your rippled skin
into stone

one of your faces
speaks to me, in the way of weather
fierce and cold

one of your selves
is scattered
in my fingers, fragrant
and falling