The Patient Recovers Her Joys
By Margaret A. Robinson

To sit at my desk and look
at the rain this morning.

(My mother closes her book
and smiles at Dad washing

his garden lettuce, snapping
just-picked asparagus.)

Outside on the skylight roof,
drops rattle the tin.

Last night on the couch,
warming my skin, Claude's

hand, thick wall against loss.
Today clouds lift, winds blow away

sins. Pollen sifts, a leaf unwraps
beneath noon sun. At dusk, wine

in a crystal glass. Ocean slips across mud,
the tide reaches full height.

A stranger and I will soon both glimpse
a red cartwheel moon and gasp.

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