My parents landed safely
after a long trip in the rain.
Everyday the same clouds,
like one grey blanket spread
to the horizon, sheets of rain
on the famous monuments.
We can barely see our hands
in front of our faces, my mother
writes. Nothing from you yet.
We wonder how it is with you.
Next time I will send them ten
postcards before they leave,
each one filled with little,
comforting lies.
Maybe then the rain might stop
or something wonderful will occur.
Maybe their hotel will rise above
the city’s famous river.
They will eat a fabulous meal
at the rooftop restaurant
as brilliant birds, wings bursting
in colors of flame, warble the hymns of night.
Steve Klepetar lives in the Berkshires in Massachusetts. His work has received several nominations for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize.
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