April Poem
The Heaven of Lost Umbrellas
They have to be somewhere;
those ribbed and fabric
servants who have held
off storms so grandly, quietly,
and with such solemn
unassuming elegance.
They come to us
in colors but mostly
that ubiquitous black.
Plaid, polka dots, birds,
butterflies, Monet’s
water lilies . . . he must
be laughing at the irony.
Van Gogh’s sunflowers,
one grand, glorious sun
of yellow. We have
monograms, advertisements,
golf ones big enough
to cover a room
of golfers . . . except
it never rains on a golf
course. Nor in this
way out of the way
heaven of lost things.
Here umbrellas lie
folded in resting pose.
They hold their own
handles, their work
for the moment
completed. Yet
they wait to be
unfurled
and walked
wherever
they need to go.
— Ruth Moose
