Whether had become a sloped, suspended question,

for the boy with the open umbrella

and the maid with the overflowing pail.

They swung in the humidity between

rain and fine, gauging the sway of day’s pressure.


Drops tapped on the glass, but mercury’s line

stuck rigid chill to the boy’s sheltering shield

and the maid’s heavy-weighted burden.

On the hour, a mechanical call announced

further insistent winds of their rotation.


Their little wooden, weather house clung sheer

and the wall’s cliff face remained unconquered,

as each day’s shadow revolved to shifts

of yet more roped, pendulum pulls.

The suspension of caught climbs hung heavily.


Spring’s coiled warmth then unfurled tentative light,

and the two little plastic figures

balanced in mid-air, their axis no longer

the formality of a stately gavot

stepping out to the decorum of guests.


After the rain of midnight and tempest,

the boy folded his battered protection

and the maid put down her brimful of tears.

Sun sprinkled its April bathe in sweet gusts,

refreshing altitude once flat and plain.


They had danced on the point of a pinnacle

too long.and vertigo had left them queasy.

In the steady, calm descent from thin air,

their accord now twined to rhythm and rhyme:

weathered but buoyed - poised - made in bide-time..