Morning in Liguria

Rain seven days without letup.
Another dawn, if you can call
the gray light of a low sky dawn.
The two ancient setters, their ears
flattened, moan at the back door.
The door stays shut; more rain
answers their pleas. The kids leave
for school, heads bowed, furious,
splashing carefully in each puddle
as a rebuke to all mothers.
Now come the princesses
in high boots and gay umbrellas
in perfect Venetian blues,
deep and mysterious siennas,
the royal reds of cardinals,
all imported from Jakarta.
The crone who flogs carnations
at the station huddles in wet wool
smelling herself with delight.
A light comes on, a green cross
above the town pharmacy,
the metal shutters rise revealing
balms for scaled skin, bright syrups
to heighten the breast, stockings
to bolster empurpled calves.
A new day is here. Let trade
commence, let the flags of hope—
the long drawers and black bras
on the line—take the March wind.
Let the sodden, teenage lovers
under the railroad bridge kiss
and make up, let the builders
hammer and saw at their arks,
for this is the waking world.

Copyright © 2004 Philip Levine All rights reserved
from The Kenyon Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission