The rain didn’t fall so much as drape itself across the yard;
a porous border between dawn and day, grey and green
My right toe ached inside my slipper—an old man’s
barometer to the day’s fortitude—seemingly stuck pointing to Change
Drifts of woodsmoke crept along the roofline so I inhaled deeply and rolled the ash around in my mouth
as I listened for the rustling of the sea
He called out, paradoxically buoyant: Another wet morning
to a passing rain-slickered neighbour, tethered to a rain-slickered dog
I thought of the news this morning talking of the tariff war and wondered what things are going
unreported while we stare at this hurtling orange sun
They say the shingles vaccine reduces rates of dementia which seems like good news for the one in three,
assuming they can remember
Sharply, the morning’s hush grew painfully clamorous in my ears
so I opened the door and rose into the air, floating right out of my slippers
Whoa, called the neighbour, what is happening up there?
so I called down: The road is going to be closed tomorrow from a car accident
This glutinous highway of ours catches cars most every week on its spidery
trapline so I figured it was a decent-enough prophecy as I continued my upward drift
Claro?, I asked
Bueno, hummed the powerline
…
This poem was published in the Fall 2025 issue of Sea & Cedar magazine. You can read the digital edition of the magazine here.
