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Blank, the sky hangs there, drained. On the window panes drops still cling — the ones that will leave their mark: a brief message from night-rain’s passage. Look at me, my nose almost to the glass, one finger following a drop’s trace, making up what it might say. How I want to read Stay with me, stay. And how everything now seems to say it too, even the towhee’s sharp: here, here. So I stop my busy nothingnesses & sit a while at my good table, by the white bowl edged golden by the sun. That welcome sun, glad to push the last mist-shreds into the hills, & come linger along my bookshelves, as if to find the book, & in it the page that reads: This is the world, it is yours, all signs, omens & ruins. I’ll leave this window soon. This room. My books. The towhee will leave for other gardens, while, white & low, new clouds will gather over the Pacific, to billow, beautiful, inside a newborn breeze. -----
Copyright 2021 Laure-Anne Bosselaar. First published in Crosswinds, Vol VI, 2021.
Laure-Anne Bosselaar is the author of These Many Rooms (Four Way Books, 2019) and served as Poet Laureate of Santa Barbara until April 2021.
I am there. Thank you.
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