Rain at varying ratesBreaks up the queues at our bus stop; most people who know
They waited too long to buy umbrellas stand,But some sit down on rocks,
While overhead, on longClouds sharpened like blades on skates,
We see pneumonia weather sliding in.
All nature seems to be at workReluctantly, as Friday's anxious
Managers, both desultory and eagerTo clear their stacked-up paper out of the way,
Go home. Do not start anything today.Pay less attention to politics. Wrap it all up.
Consider the neighbour whose overstuffedThree-storey house caught fire from inside,
Who saved cards, cheque stubs, apple wrappers, news,Who would have gone up
In a fireball had the fire trucks arrivedFive minutes late: we saw him just
This morning, smilingAt us in his loose sweater, out on the kerb
Beside one of his indoor-outdoor cats.
Behind them, all unharmed, we saw his rowOf lilies, opalescent, deaf to us
And focused on their arduous life cycleOf evapotranspiration:
They work all day, each day, with outstretchedIgnorant leaves that might as well be hands.
– Stephen Burt
from The London Review of Books