Sometimes, in the middle of the night, when

It begins to rain and you get up in the dark,

Feeling your familiar way to the window where

One pane frames your view of pine needles

Swirling in runoff and runnels and what you see

Across sixty years is seep and settle of tea leaves

In the cracks and crazes of your grandmother's

Chipped china pot, and the dirty yellow light

Of the street lamp is washed almost to blue

And leaning just so toward where you are,

Brushing against you and your shadow is

A half-shade lighter than the dark of the room,

There, there is a face in the glass looking in

At you looking out at the light and the rain.