This is order, this clutter that fills clearings between us

Rain Makes Its Own Night
Anne Michaels

Rain makes its own night, long mornings with the lamps left on.
Lean beach grass sticks to the floor near your shoes,
last summer's pollen rises from damp metal screens.

This is order, this clutter that fills clearings between us,
clothes clinging to chairs, your shoes in a muddy grip.

The hard rain smells like it comes from the earth.
The human light in our windows, the orange stillness
of rooms seen from outside. The place we fall to alone,
falling to sleep. Surrounded by a forest's green assurance,
the iron gauze of sky and sea,
while night, the rain, pulls itself down through the trees.


The other night I stopped at Chapters with a couple of friends and discovered that their poetry section has expanded! I mean, it's still not huge, but it is certainly improved from the measly two shelves it usually is. Of course, I had to treat myself to some new books. Glorious. Simply glorious. It's been raining lately. There is something nice about weather like this. It's relaxing and contemplative. Life seems a bit slower when it's rainy; there's space to breathe and room to think. Rain and poetry are an excellent combination.