by Bruce McRae
On a street the name of which eludes me.
In a town of little import, one day in the past,
a summer’s day, like countless days that have been before,
comes the sound of weeping through an open window,
the one with the flowerbox painted blue, curtains fluttering
as only curtains in a summer breeze will do.
Weeping, and music on a radio, an indistinguishable tune.
And a cat on a stoop, licking its paw and unconcerned
with cause and effect, untouched by the vicissitudes of emotion.
Weeping, so a passerby may stop to listen briefly, pausing
to consider the bulk of human despair, the immensity of sorrow,
before carrying on in a world in which we all must wander.
It is an errand of some great importance.
— from Juniper Volume 4, Issue 1