Down from the attic
as the rain ended,
pleased at first
to find no leaks
around the chimney flashing,
but too long stooped
among her crated things,
her books and wrapping paper,
her dolls and coffee cups,
the things that made a life,
I was overtaken
by the way it was.
I fled outside,
released myself
into the open sky,
and already in the west
it was the way it is:
The vividness was gone,
the day was pale and fading.
