Stones for the River

Monday, July 13, 2020

my winter tea

cinnamon and orange —

the sun comes out

All night the rain

mutters and grumbles

like an old quarrel, on and on

without resolution, finally

subsiding with a dribble.

those muffled sounds —
a small black cat’s
persistent ghost

lingering

even in silence —

the sound of

that unanswered phone’s

reverberations

winter sun —

noon is bright gold

briefly

Shut inside I almost miss startling red blooms, new on my bottlebrush.

I don’t know much more than his name and profession, my great-grandfather.