This afternoon the rain pummels
the purple Chinese houses, stripping
the petals from their tiers. The storm drives
the spring birds down from the heights. The birds and flowers ravish me.
The splendor hurts, thanks to the grayness
of the daily grind, and because everyone
we have known is gone and only we two
share it.
It doesn't
bother me
now
to sit still by the creek, dying out of myself,
just flowing water and oak woodland,
because we are not bounded by minutes
and generations may pass or only moments.
The creature with merciless jaws is nearby,
but the oriole has arrived from another world,
endlessly ranging, flitting from branch to branch,
alone with the wind, singing a little.
