From the leaf-choked gutters,
from café awnings and streaked glass,
the sky is falling,
buffered by our thousand canopies,
softer than a gentle rain.
Seeping inside, soft, steady,
to ring stains upon the wooden ledges
and upon the trees that fare better
but for heavy limbs draped lower over the road
and those broken snapping underfoot
as we race home to close the windows
and water the flowers
thirsting in their clear vase.
High above the ceiling cracked and bowing.
-published by The Journal