Closing the Windows by Ted Kooser

 

Closing the Windows

First, the uncertain white fingers 

Of lightning, fumbling around

With the black hem of the county,

Peering in under, then thunder,

Then the slat slap of the first drop

On the roof, like a fingertip 

tapping, “Right here, put the rain 

here.” And then my father

In his summer pajamas

Moving in silhouette, closing

the windows, no word from him

who swept through the house

like a flashing shadow, but a chatter

of leaves blown over the shingles,

the clunk of sash weights

deep in the walls, then the storm

muffled by spattered glass.

It was all so ordinary then
to see him at the foot of the bed,
closing a squeaky window,
but more than sixty years have passed
and now I understand that it was
not so ordinary at all.