What else is one to do — when one has so little and so little to look
Forward to? Today, I staked the tomatoes; tomorrow, it’s going to
A cool, wet spring and everything rotten —.
Forget about your bones,
This wet gets in the soul,
The spirit, whatever you
Want to call it, that pilot
Light we’re all so proud
Of, and makes you wish
Its sad dim flame would
Just hiss-out — the water-
Logged fronds of the tin
Palms dripping, the gate
Swinging, sodden, on its
The thunder down its heavy leather
Lays and from the ruined garden by the lake a hazy murmuration
lifts into the rain-lit
Air, blurs into the mists that swirl there,
Then settles in thin wing-swept breaths
Into the maidenhair —
I have an idea, let’s all live forever!
If it doesn’t rain tomorrow, maybe I’ll water the tea roses; maybe
I’ll weed something.