Just Before the Turning

When day begins to lean
towards night,
that earliest inclination,
a pause of breath, the redirection
of the heart...

The woman,
taking clothes down off a line,
presses her face against the flannel
of a shirt, breathes deeply in.

Across the lane
the fragrance of the lilacs
lifts a neighbor from her kitchen
through the screendoor
to the yard,
the branches reaching out their hands,
brimming with blossoms.

The old man, in his garden
down the street,
seems to be listening for something
far away.
He floods the marigolds.
While from an upstairs window,
someone watches him,
his daughter or his wife, hand
at the curtain.

When day begins to gather in
the light,
each kind of passing
seems to show itself...

a holding, and
an opening of the hand,
as if the two
might be one gesture,

as if, in certain moments,
we might long for
what we have.