It has been a long week
with long days
and maybe a long life that some days
tire beyond living.
What I mean to say is that
until the thrush sings to my delight
a too late summer song from the deep shadow dark wood
that is tiring of its own green pressed thin by August’s heat, or
a sourwood leaf, blushing red to almost orange
earlier than the myriad others, catches the last sun of the too long day
and not so long life
as if to give up now what it worked so hard to earn in green,
catches my eye.
I can smile from within then,
at least give myself hope
and the thrush song stops but I can still hear it –
the echoes of three notes from one brown bird
whose shadow remains –
and the sun’s light slants lower
and the leaf glows red
no longer,
Then, I can breathe one more time,
at least
before I fall silent in darkness
too.
—
