by Michael Flanagan
The trees stand in the rain, full of movement.
The clouded sky lets loose with the sound
of replenishment, the sidewalks dark with it.
Time remains strictly a concept. In spite of that
I feel further behind places I want to be, sense
the end of roads I'll be allowed to know. Still
I remember the strident wonder built into
the smell of an oiled baseball mitt, the glove
taken from a box in a closet when spring arrives.
With luck I'll wake into morning. The world will
unfold all over me as I try for everything again.