Whereas the porch screen sags from
the weight of flowers (impatiens) that grew
against it, then piles of wet leaves,
then drifted snow; and
Whereas, now rolled like absence in its
drooping length, a dim gold wave,
sundown’ s last, cast across a sea of clouds
and the floating year, almost reaches
the legs of the low-slung chair; and
Whereas between bent trees flies
and bees twirl above apples
and peaches fallen on blue gravel; and
Whereas yesterday’ s thunder shook blossoms
off laurel the day after they appeared; and
Whereas in the dust, the fine and perfect
dust of cat-paw prints scattered across
the gleaming car hood, something
softer than blossoms falls away,
something your lips left on mine; and
Whereas it’ s anyone’ s guess as to how long
it’ s been since a humid day sank so low,
so far from the present that missing
sensations or the sensation of something
missing have left impressions in the air,
the kind a head leaves on a pillow; and
Whereas the last of ancient, unconvincing
notions evaporate from the damp pages
of thick, old books that describe how,
for instance, Time and Love once
lay together here; how in a slurred flash
of light she turned and waded back
into the sea, and how the slack
part of any day was and is
all in the way he, half
asleep, felt her hand slip out of his; and
Whereas, the blue heron stands on the shore;
while the sleek heron turns, broad
to narrow, half hidden among the reeds;
turning with the stealth, the sweep
of twilight’ s narrowing minute,
of stillness taking aim; turning
until it almost disappears into
the arrowhead instant the day disappears,
until, staring out of the reeds,
the aforementioned heron
is more felt than seen; and
Whereas, you, with due forethought
and deliberation, bite into
an apple’ s heart and wish it were your own