In winter, we did dream
of this extravagant heat,
this golden gale of light
that whips each sun-bared limb,
and makes our wool-wrapped, boot-toed tramps
through frosty grass
a distant planetary dream.
There's the indulgent bee,
rolled deep in velvet pollen,
half drunk on sun thick nectar,
oblivious of memories,
buzzing above the silent furnace roar
of pavement baking patiently,
some yards away.
The mockingbird, alone,
careless of blazing noon,
runs, tail high,
through the bleaching grass,
after a hapless bug,
then flaps white-flashing wings
to the unshaded top
of some
well-favored tree, to sing.
He sings a memory
of the north-flown cardinal,
who habited our winter
with his spark of cheer -
"'What cheer! What cheer!' is here!"
The cardinal is gone.
The red slow-fading sun
has come to linger long.
Its warmth embraces stones,
and deep, damp roots of trees,
and radiates into the
humming, dusky night.
- AFB, 7-16-2024
