After last night’s rain, the world begun again—
you know what I mean, you have been here often—
I go to the window. For a moment the world
is my only backyard, such gold as I have seen
enclosing saints’ heads in medieval paintings,
illumination surrounding every flower.
This summer I woke to as a child
after my long fall into sleep, black rain
which never ceased until my eyes could open
first light an expectation without words.
You remember this. You knew the same morning.
I’m four years old for both of us right now.
The window runs with gold. There was a time
when morning was enough for everything.