2005-10-15 - 11:58 a.m.
Afterglow
On this plot of unplowed ground
we call a garden, I wait
and watch the ebbing embers.
The moon is nowhere to be found
and pitch-black night impends, but does not penetrate
the aura of warmth that still shelters
my limbs. Even so, to be sure,
I rake the ash-cool coals
until flames break out and once more
flicker in dark windows
down the street--until, putting foot to hayfork,
I pitch it firmly in earth and stand at ease,
at last fulfilled with work,
and listen to a multitude of peepers
beyond the trees.
