The rain came and is going

so quickly. A hole in the awning 

above me, rusted through tin:

I love the way it drips wet

onto my shoulder, tap tap 

on the roof and the stones

in the garden. Remember 

sitting here reading a poem 

called Spring? Last year?  

Remember? I can’t stop 

remembering. I was having 

such a nice time in the rain, 

but now it’s gone. I have 

thought too much about time

and I am here again, and there, 

and now and back then. And why 

did I love that poem so much?

Because it was the simplest 

in the book.  

But I’ll sit here now, in the sun

again.  I’ll walk the crumbling

steps and dirt paths, and admire 

the sculptures that haven’t yet changed.

I’ve misremembered the title, a good sign.  

My tongue fizzes.  I brought some rosé 

this year, so I’ll drink it.  The grass is too thick.

Anyway, at least here it will always be warm.