Triptych

These are the laws of gravity:

things fall;

what is one becomes two,

becomes four, becomes eight.

It snowed through the 80's,

which I saw from a window taller than me,

where I lived and built things,

also taller.

The next time I looked up

it was warm;

the moon was full;

I was under a tree dripping mangoes,

wrapped in new tongues

with words for new things.

Next thing I knew

it was about to rain:

the sky was yellowed like old newspaper.

The air rushed by,

looking for shelter

but I stayed.

When the rain began

I sat there

not wanting,

not waiting;

my colors ran.

Rainbows formed in the puddles.

I sat still,

counting shades of gray