EvensongSeptember light is mulled wine. It is milkwood and honey.
It drifts down, down, from ever so high, from ever so far,
through the dream-pearled spaces.
It is glass and mulberry, rose quartz and diamond,
shadows of bees.
Peach leaves, rust-gold with dying. And the late roses,
berry-red, that redden the shade-gray walls of the garden.
Beet leaf and squash vine. Sourwood and kale,
gone-to-seed vines in the dirt patch.
Lettuce stalks climbing along the chimneys.
Night passing. Moon at the edge of full; Orion floating.
Trees in a glass garden.
Issue #13, January, 2000 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.