You can only be rich
briefly (wealth
moves or dies)
and this evening
I am rich.
and the wind
kicks up, thunder
rolls over the lakes,
the first yellow leaves
blow by in patterns
of foresight.
Tom battens hatches
while I, the idle rich,
do nothing.
The world (it
moves or dies) sometimes
allows this green
oasis, this brief
imagined stasis
in which to
weigh the luxury
of our accumulated peace,
our wealth of years,
our love.
Storm and stress
have their own gravity
and, yes, it will rain tonight,
but there is nectar
in the flower now
and now.
S. Robbins, from Readings,

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