The grass seems lusher
in the wet gray air,

but less approachable now
through a thick curtain
of pouring rain.

The day before I leave your home,

crimson urn on the dark cherry
coffee table, picture windows
framing the lagoon –

all more beautiful, knowing
I won’t see them
for another year.

As though I look at them
through something like

this curtain of rain.

More beautiful, but beautiful
still on all the days before.

I used to envy the simply grateful,
who, without needing

separation or loss,

would lift their heads
from their busy supper or book

and revel in the steam from a teacup
winding its slow way
to nothingness in the air,

or just the teacup
catching the window’s tiny
parallelogram of light.


Posted by kind permission of the poet. First published on Rattle, 2008.