It rains & rains & the trees
light up like stones underwater:
a haze of dull orange,
a yellow mist,
on the ground a purple kelp
of shed leaves.
The branches send out their tentacles:
catkins & red tufts
groping for summer.
From the window I can see
the meadow I walked through yesterday,
spiney mosses
in last year’s papery grass, white flowers
tiny & chilly.
Here is a room
where you will never be;
outside, a road
where you will never
be with me. It’s
hard to believe.
This is not a season
but a pause
between one future & another,
a day after a day,
a breathing space before death,
a breathing, the rain
throwing itself down out of the
bluegrey sky, clear joy.
-Margaret Atwood, Rain
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