Late March

Outside
Where the soft, late afternoon light
Bathes the world in stillness
A stillness in which, crows perch
On road signs to clean their beaks
Ready for the next kill
Birds are few and small
Winged insects are waiting
For the cooler air an hour away
Stilled, I breathe the sweet Spring air
Inside

Inside
The house, all are sharp rectangles
Edges of boxes, packed
With a soul’s accumulations
Accretions that speak back to me
Needing reassurance perhaps
Of original love. Will you keep me?
The mug with the broken handle
My father’s sand wedge
Leaning against the shed door
Outside

Outside
The Sun is painting the sky
It is the end
Below the horizon
Out of sight, it does its best work
Like Julian of Norwich
Or Franz Kafka
When all its former glory
Is extinguished and
Stripped away, then I go
Inside