Poem a Day

Smallest breath
on the pillow, we counted
all the months,
first day of spring, first day
of summer, and each night now
as your silence
draws us back to you, here
where these soft leaves are leaning
over a little water
inside this circle
painted on your bed, and that cloud,
that aimless puff, goes on
floating through the same perfect sky.
If there’s a secret,
I won’t ask.
If there’s one good explanation,
I don’t want to know.
Your blue eyes
catch hold of everything
that pleases you,
and you know
what I mean when I say, Look at that!
That I mean, Look at me.
As if one more reckless smile
would rescue
the morning’s gray
indifferent weather, and nothing
would be left to speak of
but this
feathery branch of the willow,
or the shadow of the nest
lodged above it,
or the shadow of the cloud
that sweeps the grass and is gone.

-Lawrence Raab