in late summer, a rain so delicate
you can sit in the backyard and let the mist
drizzle your face. There’s no grass
of course. A late heat wave has bleached
the lawn, burnt off the last of the tree ferns.
Just last week children and the elderly
were suffering from heatstroke. Yet
these gifts that arrive late season —
an apology you hadn’t dared hope for,
a rush of poems, an impromptu patience
with the world. You rest your head
against a silky oak, and by your cheek
two butterflies coupled in flight
sex it up. And the day has charmed you
with ephemera before you can object.
Nincsenek megjegyzések:
Megjegyzés küldése