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The wet cabin
next to me,
dark-shaded,
the cups of rain
next to me;
rot holes of
redwood; the split
rock a single color
from the core
outward; the rising
heron's wings all
shadows across the grass.
And I thought
I heard you coming
down the cement path.
Worn-down dragonfly
body next to me, some
ashes also spilt there
by the brick border.
I thought I heard
your short quick heels,
I felt the pines
covered with rain
that would sit
at the table of roots.
Blown-off azalea petals
that had reached
transparency
next to me.
I could have been
back by the canal
with its mirror
the heron drank
inside of, and not
have gone through this,
not have decided
to start again.
And I didn't know
if I wanted whom
I thought to be
you making those
short angry steps,
I didn't know
if we could
kid each other about
all of it all
over again,
I didn't know
if we could last
after everything
that went down.
Doren Robbins
Read poems about / on: mirror, rain, dark, poem, rose
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