like sky-written letters on a windy day

I'm counting this poem for yesterday (there will be another poem later today), but it's also sort of a first: this is the first year in poetry month history where I don't have a John Donne poem on my schedule. But I do have this one, which isn't exactly not a John Donne poem. 

Every reader loves the way he tells off

the sun, shouting busy old fool

into the English skies even though they

were likely cloudy on that seventeenth-century morning. 

And it's a pleasure to spend this sunny day

pacing the carpet and repeating the words, 

feeling the syllables lock into rows

until I can stand and declare, 

the book held closed by my side, 

that hours, days, and months are but the rags of time. 

But after a few steps into stanza number two, 

wherein the sun is blinded by his mistress's eyes, 

I can feel the first one begin to fade

like sky-written letters on a windy day. 

And by the time I have taken in the third, 

the second is likewise gone, a blown-out candle now, 

a wavering line of acrid smoke. 

So it's not until I leave the house

and walk three times around this hidden lake

that the poem begins to show

any interest in walking by my side. 

Then, after my circling, 

better than the courteous dominion

of her being all states and him all princes, 

better than love's power to shrink 

the wide world to the size of a bedchamber, 

and better even than the compression 

of all that into the rooms of these three stanzas

is how, after hours stepping up and down the poem, 

testing the plank of every line, 

it goes with me now, contracted into a little spot within. 

—Billy Collins, "Memorizing 'The Sun Rising' by John Donne," from Horoscopes for the Dead, 2011. I posted "The Sun Rising" back in 2008.