After three days of steady rain
over two inches said the radio
I follow the example of monks
who write by a window with sunlight on their page.
Five times this morning,
I loaded a wheelbarrow with wood
and steered it down the hill to the house,
and later I will cut down the dead garden
with a clippers and haul the soft pulp
to a grave in the woods.
But now there is only my page
and the sun upon it like a poem
that I am covering with another poem
and the dog asleep on the tiles,
her head in her paws
her hind legs splayed out like a frog.
How foolish it is to long for childhood,
to want to run in circles in the yard again,
arms outstretched,
pretending to be an airplane.
How senseless to dread whatever lies before us
when, night and day, the boats,
strong as horses in the wind,
come and go,
bringing in the tiny infants
and carrying away the bodies of the dead.
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