The heart is not here,
it can not, will not, be here—
in all this rain, more than
we’ve seen in several years.
A rabbit darts through
the overgrown lawn,
now gone to seed, each blade
a reproach. What hasn’t
been done, what can not,
will not. A sparrow ascends,
becomes untethered. Motion
is sometimes but not always
distraction. The clouds oppress
but containing is what breaks you.
In their garden beds
the radishes crack.
OPTIONAL POETRY 