...And now, it rains.
A charmless weekend retreats into memory:
The crying babies, spoiled older children,
Whiny pensioners, a dance recital, ad hoc
Meals, the sundry solemn disappointments
Which arrive each Mother's Day, are gone.
A shapeless aftermath ensues. I rise, and, in
The darkness, see my possibilites as manifold
Until the sky grows lighter. When I push apart
The drapes, propelled by nascent expectations,
I learn that the sun's been blotted out...
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 26 times
Written on 2023-05-15 at 13:59
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