The patter of rain  

on the roof this not-yet-spring

past the equinox

upstate swings, selfish.

Foot-tap invocations, brief

shows of gratitude

too early or too

late arrive febrile, ready

to grow. Things not said

interspersed with sobs

from the antique library

table and matching

desk reach rooms across

the continent scattered with

the half-packed boxes

of inheritance.

Among the fading photos

in the album I

found from the start of

the last century:  one of

the old house downtown

I never entered,

of the living room, by chance

authenticates the

antiquity and

formal essence, the

tableness of the table.