Walking through a field with my little brother Seth
I pointed to a place where kids had made angels in the snow.
For some reason, I told him that a troop of angels
I know it's a bad title
but I'm giving it to myself as a gift
on a day nearly canceled by sunlight
when the entire hill is approaching
It's too nice a day to read a novel set in England.
We're within inches of the perfect distance from the sun,
the sky is blueberries and cream,
She woke me up at dawn,
her suitcase like a little brown dog at her heels.
I sat up and looked out the window
Where did you go, my dear, my day;
Where, oh where, did you go?
To market, to maker of market, to say
Too much of the little I know.
It had been four days of no weather
as if nature had conceded its genius to the indoors.
They'd closed down the Bureau of Sad Endings
My life is almost over; that's a fact
Statistically derived but simply true;
I look into the mirror, but it's cracked
Coincidence. Perhaps coincidence
Explains it all. Why look far out, in deep
For mystical solutions to make sense
Of how a dream disturbed more than my sleep—
As one who, reading late into the night,
When overcome by sleep, turns off the light
And yields whatever he can sense by sight