I have stared out
through this window before.
Many times.
Who knows
the sums of such things?
I was there this morning,
a fresh mug of coffee
sending the aroma of waking
up from the table beside me.
Yesterday, the trees
were the waving arms
of children at a parade.
The sunrise was
a golden flood.
In Winter, the finches
were the ghosts of Spring.
The frozen pond
a tomb for the sky.
The Christmas cactus was
the ebon night above us
on The Fourth of July, and
the hill which lifts this house
fell away from the porch
like the falter toward eternity.
But on this day,
the glass is only glass.
The rain is only the rain.
This morning is but the
last of last night.
The cats are just cats.
The leaves of the laurel
look as they do, and
I am only a man
in an old robe,
cradling a cooled cup,
capped pen in his pocket,
and likely to be late
for work.