There
is a
rain here
that
hangs
like
threadbare
silk
from the
cloud,
never
falling.

Birds
chop the
morning
with
their
small
flight.

They
gather
on the
church
before
shattering
the quiet
with a
clatter
of wing.

I stitch
these
things
I see
to mend
you.

This
morning
you
sent
me Yeats
so I
send him
back:

"So great a sweetness flows into the breast
We must laugh and we must sing,
We are blest by everything,
Everything we look upon is blest."