In the garden, still a few globes of color
whirling in gusty breath that shakes trees,
catches bristle-tips of squirrel tails,
flickers like candles in gathering dusk.
Now is the fat time
before all is still
and winter holds the earth,
all the quiet beasts,
even fishes ice-suspended.
And I began to exhale until the release
is too much and I grasp it all up again,
the black pencil-lines of cosmos,
corn silk, raspberry stain
and like a child hoarding toys,
I hate winter--
softened now by summer days,
bare feet, rosemary hours
and the old maple, a grandmother
suddenly young again, her leaves
so tender and cool. I wanted dense
shade, rain, clockless evenings.
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