Sunday Poem

November
.
After three days of steady rain –
over two inches said the radio –
I follow the example of monks
who write by a window, sunlight on the page.
.
Five times this morning,
I loaded a wheelbarrow with wood
and steered it down the hill to the house,
and later I will cut down the dead garden
.
with a clippers and haul the soft pulp
to a grave in the woods,
but now there is only
my sunny page which is like a poem
.
I am covering with another poem
and the dog asleep on the tiles,
her head in her paws,
her hind legs played out like a frog.
.
How foolish it is to long for childhood,
to want to run in circles in the yard again,
arms outstretched,
pretending to be an airplane.
.
How senseless to dread whatever lies before us
when, night and day, the boats,
strong as horses in the wind,
come and go,
.
bringing in the tiny infants
and carrying away the bodies of the dead.
.
.
by Billy Collins
from Sailing Alone Around the Room