When did the stacked logs of a neighbor
threaten such melancholy?
Yet, even now, I can trace the orange slash of an Oriole
against the ice blue lake
and feel the breeze shiver its breath through
The holes in the screen.
Each line softens with moss,
with the red cup of the tulip footing brown shadows.
Sway, my soul, like the narrow wedge of birch leaves,
Like the hummingbird feeder,
Rocking in its solitude
While it holds sweet tears.