Is it that I’m dying again, ahead of time?
I am imagining it is summer now. I am
at the table writing this. Someone outside
says Paul. It mentions things I need
to bring, and see what they have done: the lawn cut
a darker green, the tomatoes picked in
a bruiseless box of cardinals; show me summer is
becoming her. The dogs chase invisible birds
in patterns of scents, teeth grassy snakes
that link the fence. A car passes; it shines.
A jet touches down on her palm; a hand
that sets the sun, alight in her eyes.
She is a woman marvelling at a sea.
Clay fingerprints squeeze her jeans; dirt
on the cheeks darken her eyes. Gravity falls
both ways, but there’s no transcendence, only this —
grass generous on the feet, and above,
just a plane in the hand, her eyelashes that await
earth’s astonishments— and yet,
she has left summer on the kitchen table
to have me bring it back, feel it again,
all this beauty that’s meant for her.
20/1/17 – Ancaster, Wellesley, Waterloo, Kitchener