|
In the Fifth Year of Our War
Old swimming pool bending afternoon light
into turquoise, the water blown a little
by a circling wind, the usual summer chaff—
pine needles and leaves, pollen—eddying
across its glass surface. And a few drowned
wasps, their paper wings spread wide
as the wings of angels.
Behind the pool and out of sight, a creek
in full September growl creates a liquid
dissonance, the sound unfathomable.
A blue oak's high canopy floats over this
little dell, this haven, this American back yard,
softening its edges with rippling shade.
A place of easy generosity, offering itself
without bitterness or regret to anyone.
|
