The kind you’re born with, the kind you choose, the kind that teach Catholic school
Subscribe and Save up to 55%
Not summer’s narcissist, calling
attention to herself with booms
and flashes, nor winter’s frozen
fury, piling white on white. A shimmering
sheen of rain, instead, an incessant
shower that lulls
and saddens, like a woman somewhere
in the world, her face in her hands.
Always so much to weep for — the friend
who is dying; the lover who left;
a river that made the news,
poisoned forever by something
leaking; the unnamed
species extinct this hour.