February
                                   by Laurel

 

There’s a layer of rain on the screen
beyond the layer of rain on the glass
where shadowed drops thread themselves
into strands of liquid jewels,
which obscure the light, filling the room
in a grey aftermath of clouds.
Shadows move with spiders, softly
up the wall.

The sky is pale.  The wood
finch hops from a damp branch
in a gleaming movement of wet bark,
brown feather, and copper leaves,
leaving sounds in an otherwise
still tree.  How odd—
that you appear in three shades of brown,
rustled from sticks and dank corners
behind a curtain of suspended rain. 

 

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