Harder to leave in sunshine,
the shaft of light catching the pink Miracle Lilly,
the good-bye gift of a Blue Jay feather dropping
dart-like into the thunderstorm-watered grass.
The breeze is pressings its face against the screen
and I want nothing more than to launch
a small blue kayak in the Thunder Bay river,
spy on the swans floating there.
The metal bird will swallow me whole, though,
wing over a tapestry of lakes and deep green
three hours now to keeping calendars and schedules,
but it’s hard to glue such a bowl back together
once it has cracked
in the hot sun.