Another Portland rain taps
my morning window pane.
I wake before the alarm
to a stormy wind that overthrows
patio furniture and launches
it across the street like a battlefield
in opposition to my denial.
I’m not ready for winter.
But rain happens, leaves fall, ready or not.T
his story is getting old
with its old beginnings ~
entrances into endings.
I drag myself out of bed,
and shuffle to the cold kitchen
for a habit of coffee, Portland pleasure.
In the Oregonian,
bad news from distant places
is demoted to back pages,
following the cheery red, white and blue
mattress sale ads.
I light a candle, put on Vivaldi,
read a poem and a prayer
then get ready for work,
grateful for free parking.
How is it I have survived
this deathly rain so long?
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