In
Memory of Water
Last
night my mood was poetry.
The
moon was hanging full of meaning
in
its rain cloud ceiling,
obscuring
illusory stars like flaws
on
an ancient plaster wall.
Though
the air was cold and wintry,
the
earth was warm from a day’s raining.
I
had a sinking feeling
that
time could suspend every cause
for
a minute’s peace.
And
just like that we’re history.
The
rain that reminds me stopped falling
on
my human failing
and,
resolving itself like a balance,
returned
me indoors.
At
dawn the sickly light made entry
through
a dirty window. This morning,
though
it was nowhere raining,
poetry
- suspended like water
on the poet’s face.
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