Emptied Glade Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Raindrops in a tortoise's shell,
Overturned beside the road—no more little
Souls inside of it,
And no reason to call this a soup of tears:
The wolves no longer give off colors,
Red or blue,
Going either way, and in their guts are no longer
Pinwheels—the sky is no longer brightened,
But neither is it afraid:
The gardens are not hidden—the waves lay where
They are laid,
And the curtains open upon an emptied theatre,
And the sun opens upon an emptied glade.