the living room floor alongside a scattered
library of thin cardboard books. Rain thumps
on the canvas awning and runs like rivers
into a hundred tiny Niagaras that splash
the nearness of summer’s end. The house
is growing dark and she begins to fret
about dinner, the sink full of dishes, her need
for a nap of her own. The baby is sleeping,
lightly latched, one hand on her soft white breast.
She breathes the sweetness of rain on freshly cut grass.
Everything is gray and, somehow, feels like tomorrow.
First appeared in The Blotter - July 2016