From the sandy hillside, this tricolored heron
walks the stone steps with more dignity
than our President, and surveys this world.
As it was in the beginning, now
my intercessions rise with his winged leaving.
My thoughts are in an easy chair.
I hold my wine glass to the window
and turn it to tune the sky
to deeper gray, the trees to silhouettes,
concerns into air, the day into night.
Evening primroses opening as the sun sets –
optimistic, out of touch, misinformed, looking ahead?
The oil from its seeds is healing.
Drawing the sun’s power at day’s end.
Yellow cups of sunlight in the moonlight.
Church bells on this late July afternoon
when I stop the lawn mower engine.
The grass is August-dry, yellow-green and bored
with growing, and the katydids stop singing.
As it was in the beginning, now.
The color of evening, melody of afternoon.
Five note sets like lines of poems,
playing out the day while I write.
Perhaps I should be composing a ghazal,
ravishing disunity, couplets to end the day.