What Travels With It

In this poem, an umbrella
leans beside a suitcase.
Folded, it is a narrow bundle;
opened, it gives the rain
a different route to the ground.

The shape changes
with what is needed.

A song can travel
in more than one audio format,
each made for a different use.
A smaller file may be easier to carry.
The full recording has its place.

The name alone
cannot tell us what survived.
Check the length,
check the ending,
and listen for the words
when listening is possible.

A song of shelter and care
needs care in its own handling.
Keep its earlier form.
Give each new copy
a clear place to belong.

Outside the poem's umbrella,
rain taps a regular measure:
quick on the fabric,
quick on the handle,
slow
from the lowest rib.

The delayed drop
changes the rhythm
without changing the weather.

Perhaps a lyric can do that:
offer a pause,
shift the weight of a phrase,
make room for someone
who is more than the story
being told about them.

The suitcase closes.
The umbrella keeps
its small, useful promise.

Creative work moves
from one place to another.
What matters is worth checking
when it arrives:

the words,
the ending,
the care.