Rosanna Warren

Birdsong. Juicings in the air, decanted summer.
The small child burbles the reinvention of language
as filaments of the spider's web
trap morning in a corner of the veranda.
We've flipped through the spectrum: in early May
each daffodil lit the flame in its small oil lamp.
In mid-June wild irises translated water
up long stems into purple and creamy fire.
Now, late July, it's tiny roses,
magenta coals strewn in a thicket of brambles.
We know it will all come to white.
I have touched each mole, each mosquito bite on your pale skin.
We hold each other carefully. Morning breaks
across the meadow, between branches of white pine,
and the catbird pours himself out
in a stream of disconnected trills, warbles, and cries.