A Grand Simulation

All day it has felt like a Sunday, although
It’s a Friday in late October, 1893, and
The rain is softly falling from the uniform gray sky —
Smothering the blue above, and blotting the sun —
In this old gold mountain mining town in Oregon.
I drink from a beloved handmade ceramic mug
That my daughter made for me
My afternoon Lapsang Souchong,
While pacing on the porch of this tiny cabin.
I’m startled with happiness when you appear;
Thou others cannot see you
I know you are real, even if
All of this is a grand simulation.