the reed is as the oak
Wm. Shakespeare
The dour Swedish police novel cast away,
another investigation finished, I lay
on the upstairs bed, entirely satisfied.
The window tipped open, the day fine:
we’d been to the park in Aberdeen,
little Eli tottering on the uneven grass.
They called the weather that, fine,
a rarity and a bestowal to be discerned
from sudden sundresses, an absence of sleeves,
sun gleaming on pale skin, sandaled feet.
Upstairs I lay still, a pure registrar
of sense: the chaises pulled
from the shed, the radio tuned in and turned up,
the shimmer of accelerant on charcoal
and the striking of matches. Clink of bottles.
Laughter. I thought I could hear my
granddaughters among the voices.
This was years ago. Tonight we took
the dog to take his night circuit around
the neighborhood. A house up the street
watering its lawn after a day of drenching.
The sky big and clear. The spring clothes
we wore for a balmy walk two days ago
set aside, the coat a temporary shelter.
We are trees casting blossom to the ground,
the tulips pursing into tight sachets, we are
the rain reckoning admission for the sun.
Leave a Reply