My nephew sleeping in a basement room
has put a sheet of iron outisde his window
to recapture the sound of rain falling on the roof.
I do not say to him, The heart has its own comfort for grief.
A sheet if iron repairs roofs only.� As yet unhurt by the demand
that change and difference never show, he is still able
to mend the damages by creating the loved rain-sound
he thinks he knew in early childhood.
Nor do I say, In the travelling life of loss
iron is a burden, that one day he must find
within himself in total darkness and silence
the iron that will hold not only the lost sound of the rain
but the sun, the voices of the dead, and all else that has gone.