There Are the Pale Points

 

 

 

There Are the Pale Points

 

The house is lit with petaled sun

The pale points of a late sunburst

idle across the wooden floor

It is the tip of evening & already

the consequences of dusk

urge the onset of a chill

You watch an evening cardinal

from the back steps

& point out how an early Spring

is bringing in the grass

In a moment you remember

you are too tired to cut

anything that grows

Betrayed by your breath

& a heart that is too slow.

Look, I say, the raspberry bush

is leaning over the wall

You stare at it too long.

You say, be sure

to cut that back

early next fall.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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