House Of Rain

Trees out the window, the mild wind carried

the bright day, attracting birds, starry-eyed,

young, we would lean out over the yard, man

renewing freedom, bureaucracy wan;

from the North, the night lights flying down here

in all sororities, death upon death,

ponytail of drawn hair, and covert breath.

When we, safe indoors, caught the lamplight there

I wanted to dance, you had time to spare:

a solitary bird against the sky,

black and white, grayscale, formed the photos my

camera took of your sunward day’s life,

walking always with the future in hand—

meandering through the prayers for your wife.

And now the years have passed, I contemplate

the house of rain with jasmine from far lands—

that melts upon your skin, and remember

the laundry and cleaning in short demand,

the moments of rock-clear bath salt, water

hot, pen even and scribbling down the faults

I had of being late and peach cobbler.

               Emily Isaacson