Late light shines through the ginkgo's dulling ruff—
Soon to be golden, but now just less green.
Message from a far-off friend: Dear Dahlin',
Hope all is well despite the world's attempts
to destroy everyone and everything.
I stretch and the dove startles up—
settles on a maple branch in the tepid air, stirring it.
When did the hours become viscous? An acquaintance
passes with her dogs and doesn't see me; or does,
but pretends not to. There is a kindness in the way
we and the world's stuff move around each other—
like we are both the dollhouse figures and the dollhouse owners—
moving toward a perfect arrangement,
but somehow always out-sized or deficient.
There is a kindness,
I am sure. The squirrel plants his walnuts
in my freshly planted bed. The neighbors' private security guards
flash their imitation cop car lights over all of us;
the creek sounds its death-rattle in banishment below.
Is the world just a thin excuse for itself?
So much sweet, but more fury?
The dove comes back, to thrash in the birdseed.
Now the light is gone,
and the little, and the barely, and the dumb
drift in and huddle against the dark's generous flank.
