The world's out there, beyond the pretty curtain
bought on budget from World Market.
Through red-threaded poppies I can see
the oak outside leaning towards me,
midday light on clumps of new leaves.
The tree is faint, but real, unlike the print
hanging on my wall - Japanese rain
as straight lines aslant, striking
hay bales, umbrellas, cloaked figures
with faces turned away, a horse with rider
just ten steps from the village, and then
the sea beyond, where three fishing skiffs,
each with one wet man,
are caught in this imagined squall.
The street narrows at the first house,
its door open and lit. No one's running,
they know where they are.
Is it real? I'm there as much as here.
Traveling in Tiger Rain by Joan Baranow | Pink Peony Poetry Reed Diffuser Set
$20.00Price
