by John Freeman

In the courtyard, a man
puts down his shovel
with a clink. We wait now
as the air cools and mist
begins kissing the limestone
walls, windowsills—the hairs
of our arms. I can almost hear
a melody, but it’s coming
from outside. Leaves silver
in the breeze, doves
cease their bickering. Finally,
air rushes in to the darkened
apartment, drapes shift, and then
the rain, a theatre’s curtain drawn.

Published on November 30, 2022