The grass seems lusher
in the wet gray air,

but less approachable now—
thick curtain of pouring rain.

The day before I leave your home,

crimson urn on the dark cherry
coffee table, picture windows
framing the lagoon—

all seem more beautiful,
knowing I won’t see them
for another year.

As though I look at them
through something like

this curtain of rain.

More beautiful, but beautiful
still on all the days before.

I used to envy the simply grateful,
who, without needing

separation or loss,

would lift their heads
from their busy supper or book

and revel in the steam from a teacup
winding its slow way
to nothingness in the air,

or just the teacup
catching the window’s tiny
parallelogram of light.

Poem by Sally Bliumis-Dunn , originally published in Rattle #30, Winter 2008
and appearing in her second collection, Second Skin (Wind Publications, 2010).
All rights reserved. Posted with kind permission of the poet.