FROM THE WINDOW

Only in the rain does this lawn reveal itself
as a hollow. Then, a large puddle forms,

brimming with cloud and earth, dilating
to a marsh in miniature.

Like all of us, drops fall alone. They ring
and ripple through the drowning grass.

The apple tree might soften the blow
if it weren't deep in winter helplessness.

Here the sadness of the world collects,
since nothing can be promised.

It's the busy mynahs with their whirr and strut,
their bob and peck who, working the design

of descent and re-emergence,
turn me from the window to my unmade bed.

© Louise Oxley