This is what she said to me:

And when I go, and when it rains,
that will be me.

Whenever the day
is travel and arrive,
and it’s pouring most of the way,
then stops?

That’s me.

That feeling of if only
the sun would come out
to dry the mist
from shallow puddles?

The sweep of wipers
keeping the road ahead clear,
frenzied, then fast, then feint,
then off, the windows dry,
and cracked,

to let in light,
on waves of cool air
riding from the breakers?

Yep, that’s me.

For Maria Rose Chagall

© Carlos Chagall, 2013