Here’s the pretty picture of her
unfamiliar wall: there’s a prettier
window where soldiering trees line up
to have their familiar tops and bottoms cut,
and their bare black branches removed
just as they reach into a settling blue.
Its painter didn’t remember to paint it in,
the softening sadness of a softer rain.
Wet drips, and it drips us invisibly
drowsing to a picture of soldiering trees.