For W. P.
“Reality, and its insubordinate dream.”
From: “The Pumpkin Eater.” Penelope Mortimer
Walking through the rain
For no good reason.
No umbrella, nor bright,
Yellow slicker with a hood.
Darkly dressed, but not depressed.
No need to impress,
Or be the least convincing, today.
Now, feeling the incessant drops
Begin to penetrate my clothes
And weigh them down.
Ballast against the gusting.
Grounded, the rain needles
Ever more impinging on my skin,
I am awake.
The chill becoming cold,
Then, engraving my bones,
I am aware.
The tide of frosted breath
Expelled, or sucked inside,
I am monotonously alive.
This is enough today,
For now.
The insubordinate dream
Begins to beckon once again.
It is merely a candle
Being lit in the window,
Its flame tentative,
As if it were lit in a draft.
Back inside, perhaps
I shall brew a cup of tea,
And sit on a window seat,
Feeling it steam
Against my chin.
Perhaps, I shall look
At the pictures
Forming in the blots
Of rain on the pane.
Then, with premonition,
Once again, I yet may dare
To gaze into the haze
Of the tempestuous world
Beyond.
My mien is lit by a smile;
I feel it is so.
March 20-22, 2011
stevengoldenpoetry 