by Darrell Bourque
We feared the rain would never come
and then it came without relief.
The clouds thickened and knitted
themselves over windows and doors.
It was as if they wanted to come in,
to be with us.
We pulled books off the shelves
we thought we might never read.
We spent hours on end in bed,
eyes straining to keep the print
discernible as light drained slowly
from the rooms and we struggled
to stay with the narrative.
There were no gardens to clarify.
There were no ditches to clean.
There were no little jobs inside
that we had not already done.
We had only to make our peace
with what we sought,
with what came to us,
with what would not leave.