Afterwards
Afterwards, when there is no more crescendo
in the yelling; no more whisk of the broom
sweeping broken glass that scratches the tile
like chalk etching words of insincere remorse
on a blackboard; when the remnants of photographs
are collected by trembling fingers
which earlier shred them in earnest;
I pause for a cold moment,
looking through our bay window
at the rivulets of water tracing the panes,
the wide-eyed peonies, joy-drunk
laughing at June’s passing torrent,
and twirling maple leaves, flashing
silver and green distress signals
as winds carry them to their last breath;
in the glass, also, my reflection.
Afterwards, when there is no more crescendo
in the yelling; no more whisk of the broom
sweeping broken glass that scratches the tile
like chalk etching words of insincere remorse
on a blackboard; when the remnants of photographs
are collected by trembling fingers
which earlier shred them in earnest;
I pause for a cold moment,
looking through our bay window
at the rivulets of water tracing the panes,
the wide-eyed peonies, joy-drunk
laughing at June’s passing torrent,
and twirling maple leaves, flashing
silver and green distress signals
as winds carry them to their last breath;
in the glass, also, my reflection.