At twenty-five you wake early, thinking.
You make a pot of strong black coffee,
open wide the back door and look out:
it has been raining, but for now it's clear.
And it will rain again, maybe this afternoon,
but for now the drops, like a fine bracelet
of diamonds, circle
the slender white arm of the birch.
At twenty-five the world doesn’t confuse you
anymore, its many-faceted array of promises
as bright and false as the rhinestones
you gave your mother when you were only six.
The world no longer frightens you—
dark glare of water you could not cross.
You drive into it now headlong, throwing
bright wings of water up to either side.
Now you have plumbed its depths, and
calculated its circumference; and to the inch
you know the worst the world can do.
The coffee is bitter. Close the door, can’t you,
someone says—don’t let all that cold air in.
But you are twenty-five,
and it won’t rain again now for a day or two.
As you hold a finger up to test the wind,
a rusty tigermoth lights on it, in passing.
And, being twenty-five, it is enough for now.