Most of the night it rained

while the small soprano sang French

I didn’t understand although I never doubted

how right it all must be

Most of the night it rained

and there was little I could do

to convey how sorry I was

how surprised at the laundry’s

white returning drift

how right the singer sang

what was only almost so close

and what was wrong was

so little really, when examined

How fine I felt at the end.

How ripe, in all, my position          (resistance)

(willingness)