Green winds trouble the water
and rain opens its generous envelope.
It is like this every day at this
time of year: the mind’s tendency
to huddle into itself to make
better sense of itself, as the world
outside tries to remember. On rooftops,
small mallets of water at work
through the night. Moths
still as auguries on the white
sill. Memory the only dry field,
preparing its halls for exhibit.
In response to Via Negativa: Mendicant.