Wednesday, November 28, 2012

The Spaces Wherein We Lie

Lying here in bed
surfing the World Wide Web,
luxuriating in the warmth
emanating from the hearth
in the corner of the bedroom,
listening to the rain
tap-dancing on the roof
beyond the coffered ceiling,

I think of mother,
who couldn't live
with us and had to move
into a downstair apartment,
cramped between noisy neighbors.
She wouldn't hear the rain.

I think of father,
who long ago had staked his claim
on a few square feet of earth
at Mountain View Cemetery.
He wouldn't hear this rain
falling softly on lush grass.
If by chance he does,
he would mistake it
for the sprinklers deployed daily
to keep the grass green.

I lie here
listening to the rain,
wishing it lasts

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