For is there a better name
for what follows dull, marching rain-a-days
licking pavements sloppy-grey
with their greasy ointment,
when curtained skies
end all performances at intermission?
When a second act lingers in the wings
until the actors are bid enter again
under tomorrow’s spotlight, refreshed
(or so we hope, and hope):
life’s boards sponged clean
with new dawn’s sweet unveiling.
And morning steam wafts up to
cup foggy eyes with its hurried tendrils.
And cocoa’s tempestuous froth and foam
is like
a madeleine
drawing you back infinitely.
And though it passed your lips
as pure confection,
still you pause to savour
that impressionist’s lingering smudge.