By Sarah Sutro
these days
could be summers
summoned
any time,
a round of endless
profusion
clouds fleece
over the channel
like charmed
portents
weeds run wild
with no rain
the hardier flowers
have taken over
echinacea, rose,
daisy,
subtler
counterparts
gone,
unable to cope
with the dry
spell,
water
listless in the
river though the
sound is always
there –
celebrate this
time –
make the most of it,
the wanton,
lush ebullience
never time to
think
of passing
not even
of summer’s
efflorescence
words falter –
bird dives
from the roof –
black-edged wings,
sun coming through his
light feathers
questions turn and spin
like birds –
burst
out from the gutters
in a heavy thudding
of wings –
then gone
yellow black-edged susans,
smudge of yellow
against green –
the spiking candlestick
plant,
also called mullein
rising as high as a fencepost
in one field, tall
sentinels
of wildness
memory keeper,
loved one,
ultimate friend,
how long we’ve
been
together
blue eggs keep rising in my mind’s eye –
every other week a
minor miracle:
you discovered
you could buy them
directly,
from the farmer –
met in – of all places –
the Walmart parking lot –
two dozen
for six dollars.
pile them gently into
the wire container,
designed to snugly protect,
no breakage –
their perfect
form
their dusty blue, blue-green,
blue grey, brown
roundness:
I am looking at the whole
universe. I am looking at
our gentle past,
at love
[Sarah Sutro lives in
North Adams and
is the author of
COLORS:
Passages through Art, Asia and Nature]