They are moving, these women,
as if time were a vegetable to eat slowly
for dinner—as if bicycles were mountains
that could raise them to the sky.
-Meredith Johnson, from “Old Chinese Women” in Rattle
You sleep with a dream of summer weather,
wake to the thrum of rain – roped down by rain.
Nothing out there but drop-heavy feathers of grass
and rainy air. The plastic table on the terrace
has shed three legs on its way to the garden fence.
The mountains have had the sense to disappear.
It’s the Celtic temperament – wind, then torrents, then remorse.
Glory rising like a curtain over distant water.