The windmill kept turning
like the gears of thought
in her increasingly absent mind.
I used to blame the world for what was wrong,
until I learned that even they
have no control.
I still think that the rosebush
was the best bush in bloom
among those riverside rains.
It’s no more than I deserve,
and rest assured that when I reached
I grasped the thorns and not the flowers.
Rain is less so a shoulder to cry on,
but rather a shoulder to cry with
in the presence of your writhing loneliness,
brought on by her facetious condolences.
Still, you must make amends with the cold rain;
she is sorry that you feel sorry.
It is apparent that the windmill moves more quickly now,
and you alone are standing in the rain
watching the roses bloom;
the world you blamed saves this only for you.
Her Condolences
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