The grass seems lusher
in the wet gray air,
but less approachable now—
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 seem 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.
Poem by Sally Bliumis-Dunn , originally published in Rattle #30, Winter 2008
and appearing in her second collection, Second Skin (Wind Publications, 2010).
All rights reserved. Posted with kind permission of the poet.
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