Taking its time
through each of the seven vertebrae of light
the sun comes down.  It is nineteen forty-nine.
You stand in the doorway drying your hands.
It is still summer, still raining.
The evening is everywhere gold:  windows, grass,
the sun side of the trees.  As if to speak
to someone you look back into the dark
of the house, call my name, go in.  I know
I am dreaming again. Still, it is raining
and the sun shining. . .You come back out
into the doorway, shading your eyes.  It looks
as if the whole sky is going down on one wing.
By now I have my hands above my eyes, listening.

--Stanley Plumly