The early evening always realizes
My lack of resistance. It whispers to shadows,
Stirring them toward quiet rebellion. They grow
Taller than their masters, taller than me.
I move slowly through the house,
Drifting on the light of an over ripe peach,
It drips down the windows,
staining my table and papers , passing behind the eyes
Of the dog, changing him for a moment
Into a ghost. I share each room
With silence and the smell of hydrangeas. They love
this light too. Outside my window they stand guard
Against the dust on the roadway.
In the early evening there is also the Juniper
on the distant hillside
Where children lay
Their bodies flat against the earth, arms and legs
Stretched out, reaching
and then rolling down, laughing and calling out
To one another. If I were with them I would speak
More like my mother and refer to jackets as parkas,
Feeling the importance that they zip them up,
As not to catch cold. But it is summer
And I am not my mother, and nor was she hers.
Its the modesty of growing old
That makes us realize we are all part
Of the same thing, soft and ripened,
Descending behind the trees with little struggle.