All the branches are green now
Even before June they bear the full weight of summer
The infancy of leaves is short
Like that of the Robins.
Far away, faint grey clouds
Streak the faint blue sky
The lines are almost uniform
One beneath another
Like strokes made on a ruined canvas
To clean the brush of paint.
May neighbor is carting barbeque equipment
From car to garage
His load is awkward, he barks at his wife
I cannot hear the words, I don’t have to.
His garage door is open and he turns on the light
And studies boxes on shelves, searching
He flips a switch and his garage door rolls closed
Leaving me with the twilight
And the distant calls of songbirds
Invisible in the dusk.
The boughs of the wild cherry droop
As if disappointed at the vanishing light
Is this the expression of the forest’s loneliness?