by Susan Laughter Meyers

And what of the pines
branching over the lake? Am I to take them
as a sign,
these few drops of rain as mercy?
Let them cool my wrist
and palm, the crease at my elbow,
as if to say,
There, and there, this gloss—
here, this wet wink misting your face.

The darkest clouds are blowing over,
shaped by wind
that whips across water.
In its path the surface breaks
into ripples—
no, wrinkles. I feel the chill.
For the living, the chickadee’s
boisterous doxologies
and old beads of turtles
strung in a row, sunning on their log
and keeping track: a long, slow
count of tomorrow’s
lack and all the past seasons.
May the yellow warbler
keep flitting about.
May the dog, the crow, persistent and loud,
settle their complaints
against nothing but air.

Between two clouds, a crack of sunlight.
Shadows of waves
are small, ephemeral, lively
as children who’ve never known death.
Cupped and quick, the shallow waves.
Some rolling toward—
and others, whose backs
are bright swells, quietly rolling away.
—for L.A.F.

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