I remember similar winters in the seventies
without rain, the desolate expectation
drought causes in you, coming into the kitchen
a stiff dried out sponge on the drainboard,
curved up at the corner.

One day I went to the de Young:
to see a Rembrandt exhibit
I recall a white lace collar
so intricately painted it sparkled like snow
glints of blue
flared in the gloom of a centuries old painting.

When I came outside my eye was so alive
I was exhilarated by the sight of a fire hydrant
rusty blisters peeling off dull red paint
everything suddenly available. I felt restored
but more than ever aware
I walked under a spell
of fragile jubilance.