The Summer Deepens Forward

I weed the English garden,
Plant bloomers in my cutting beds
Inside the vegetable enclosure,
I pull the vagrant weeds in there,
Then water, water
The stone barn beds are
Packed and fragrant,
Perfect imperfect
Bursting, rampant

Dusk descends
And seen through trees' leafed branches
Against sky's chiaroscuro,
Small brethren
Wing, darting under canopy,
Undercover, to near-night's call,
And the ground all scampers busy.

Down the road
I'm waiting for them to finish
Mowing, working,
My own chores now done,
And finally, then, the silence sounds
As sky dims.

It seems a long twilight.

I think they're all
The same, somehow, these
Stretching twilights,
Something longs, and all the breathings
Settle, well, wind down.
I don't want to stray too far;
I am part of day's transition.

Old dog, alert,
Her ticking fading into darkening fields,
Moves her head in perpetual attention:
Her job to survey,
To patrol the night, for now.

It is too dark to write.
The wrapping air is soft, though
I wear a winter's jacket
As late bits of seeking spring
Dissolve on their way to summertime.
And from these old stone beds out back,
The farmhouse kitchen glows.
  

Day's End

I discover, again, in season's
Change, the little worlds
Here as I walk and
Listen around
My evening house.

Night bird ending day
Says to bee
My time, please, hush the buzzing
and speaking of day's closing,
There isn't anything to rival
Pond's symphonic bullfrogs.

In these quiet, twilit rural fields,
At day's end a farmer mows
The patchy, grassy dirt
Around her garden,
Close to the yard.

And all that nonsense
In the wailing world out there
Can't touch me here,
I'm balanced on the safe edge
Of world's green growing,
All the warming sounds and songs

And on this rim
There is peace enough,
I find, to see what
Blooms.