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That fire in the garden's an illusion— the double of the fire that cheers this room. Now standing at the window in between them, I watch the spiked montbretia suddenly bloom and guess the glass is telling me a lie. But no, the flames are there. I can't deny the evidence presented to my eye. Only to my doubt can I appeal for news of what is false and what is real.
Copyright © 2010 by Anne Stevenson. Used by permission of the author.
You sleep with a dream of summer weather, wake to the thrum of rain—roped down by rain. Nothing out there but drop-heavy feathers of grass and rainy air. The plastic table on the terrace has shed three legs on its way to the garden fence. The mountains have had the sense to disappear.
An Interrupted Monologue by Rembrandt van Rijn, c.