A sketchy evening, hastily made and fresh
with silky bird songs tangled through the air
four pink-edged apple blossoms puffed out
on the bough because a warm week fooled
them into spring.
I think the evening maker likes this
one, delays the disappearance, slows
the tide, keeps
the bright air stirred.† If we were new
here we could wonder what comes next.
Love, I have evenings.† I have evenings, and I
know myself how to untangle the songs.