Lakes and Rivers

It’s looking like storm, you tell me
with the clouds already bigger
than any blue left in the sky, and more beautiful
than anything we have made down here.

I stand in the empty living room quiet,
watching through double glass doors.
It’s that light I like, when the first rain spots
glow silver on the outdoor table
before the wood goes black, slick
as newborn animal fur.

The hail comes and here you are beside me
to worry about the car, the washing.
I think about the dogs
that belong to people in our neighbourhood
who aren’t home to let them in.

There’s nothing we can do now.

The trees in our yard drink up the sky.
Everything the same colour, steaming
with the day’s heat turning cold.

Storm’s gone, you call from the bathroom,
not knowing if I’m still watching the world
turn to lakes and rivers outside. It’s over,
you call, just to make sure.

poet's biography —>