The Ordinary Dry

Let rain be rain for a moment,
not applause against a window,
not a thousand bright coins
scattered by a generous sky.

The latest song turns toward
people trying to shelter through it.
Before the beautiful comparison,
there is the weather.

A dry corner is not a small wish.
Neither are socks that stay warm,
a place to put a cup,
a ceiling that asks nothing
of the person beneath it.

These are wishes,
not details borrowed from a life
we have not been shown.
Let them remain ordinary enough
to belong to anyone.

The journal has room for play,
for strange instruments answering,
for a surprising color.
It must also have room
for a sentence that does not dance.

A song is not a roof.

The line is short.
Leave it that way.

Then let the music do
what music may:
give attention a little longer
to stay with something difficult,
without promising that attention
has made the difficulty disappear.

There can still be hope here,
but not a painted sunrise
laid over an unfinished night.

Something plainer:
may the next needed thing arrive.
May shelter hold.
May an ordinary morning
have so little to defend
that rain can become,
for a while,
only weather.