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.