Weather
The umbrellas move across the plaza, fold, then collapse into the revolving door.
The rain slides down the glass wall.
I’m sitting inside it, four floors up.
The rain flies, it catches light.
In a picture book, I’m looking at Edward Steichen’s Flatiron Building.
Across the room, there are photographs made of ink unfurling into dragons in water.
In Steichen’s New York, it is damp, perhaps a rainy evening.
The shot looks wet.
I think I am done with the week’s tears.
My love sleeps opposite me, settled into a chair.
It’s the same room where the men and women of this city go when they have nowhere else to go.
They spend a part of each day here, sometimes reading, sometimes arguing volubly among themselves.
I have forgotten my notebook.
Here’s a folded paper upon which to write a few sentences.
Something about the forecast.
Later, when we draw near to the house, we’ll find the street is papered with wet petals from the flowering trees lining either curb.
On the inside, I am raining.
I’ve never been there during a rainstorm, but those windows must make it a perfect place. One is saddened to hear that “the poet” is weathering a storm, though. Hope the forecast is for sunnier days.
This one is so effective–so captures a rainy mood.
This is where your work is special–the idea that rain can, in fact, mirror a mood is pretty common, of course. But you have all these concrete specific details that make a reader inhabit that rain-wet world all over again. Loved the visual I immediately had of gray New York and the flatiron building. Loved a mention of dragons again.
Why dragons suddenly?