Oh Umbrellas

are what we’ll miss

most in heaven—

your hair dry, your shoes wet

in a warm June pour

I can carry the math

it takes to make a dome

in a small coat pocket—

every prayer

under the cupola

darkening the sky

by a shade

Oh ingenuities—

the rods and riders

the clack of the latch

What will I do there

without my hands upon

your summer face?

What will I do without

what I’ll miss most—

your hair turning stormy

as you cross

the flooding avenue

Copyright © 1999 – 2024 Juked