Be for me, like rain,
                                          the getting out
                                          Robert Creeley
Jade chips flake off my overclocked dismay —
verdant little dustpile of memory.
The breakfast daughter came and went,
replete with twenty absent minutes: anniversaries!
Water the bean sprout into magic height,
my daughter runs up and steals desire.
But earth inside plastic inside modular
construction speaks a language deep internal.
These introverted plants teach no lessons,
just tenacity against bitter winter glass.
What are we that yearn for X or O—
simple form distracts from nebulous structure?
Once was a time, I asked for measured terms
as ancient cobblestone melted under me —
the chalky bridge spanned choking riverbed
while Seville spread around its browns and yellows;
she stood in the warm April afternoon,
sky refusing to water the days and months.
Now years later, I have bought a watch
to hold the rain inside from getting out.