It is summer, and we are in a house
That is not ours, sitting at a table
Enjoying minutes of a rented silence,
The upstairs people gone. The pigeons lull
To sleep the under-tens and invalids,
The tree shakes out its shadows to the grass,
The roses rove through the wilds of my neglect.
Our lives flap, and we have no hope of better
Happiness than this, not much to show for love
Than how we are, and how this evening is,
Unpeopled, silent, and where we are alive
In a domestic love, seemingly alone,
All other lives worn down to trees and sunlight,
Looking forward to a visit from the cat.
My friend Barry Wood just sent this from a new Norton Anthology. Strangely accepting and a perfect pause somehow in the rhythm of life. Reminds me of the late stories by Raymond Carver where resignation has been transformed-evolved into something more knowing and serene. Even spiritual?
Very real, lonely, yet not so.
Why do I want to sip a coffe and light a cigar? !
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