1075. AND THE CONCRETE DOG

AND THE CONCRETE DOG
I find I must myself
meditate upon your
four green umbrellas.
They are out in the sun,
at a slightly darkened spot
where no direct rays are
hitting. Beneath them I
note the grimace of the
concrete dog - it seems
an anguish or a pain, and
it must always be this way.
The concrete does not change,
though - yes - the air and the light
and even the colors all will alter
with time. The four green umbrellas
seem unrankled, unfazed, right here
at the Joseph Henry House, now bathed
too in its own yellow light. They will remain,
these umbrellas will. The tables are shielded
and the sun, now adding to this new batch,
shines too its own yellow light on the
white-patterned trellis and wall.