reading a book of poetry
or maybe short stories, or
both — it’s hard to tell
with this author; rich wet air,
occasional drops falling into
my hair, onto the pages, and I
am purely happy, in a way
that is like riding your bike
down a very steep hill, or
wading in a stony brook —
it is a way that I knew
how to follow once, but
for a long time, I
have been too scared —
to read a book,
under a tree,
in light rain.
*****
8/18/2000