And then there are the mornings
to marry life: the sky’s cut glass

 

after a week of northern rain,
the roar of a neighbor’s mower

 

veering like a wasp toward the screen,
public radio crooning in mugs of tea.

 

For once I will praise the red maples’ crowns
of vermilion flame,

 

sun glowing through their veins
and the towering curtain of Norway spruces,

 

swaying when the wind runs backstage,
steadying as a sharp-shinned hawk alights.

 

My husband tills the thatchy front lawn,
calls me to witness his work.

 

I am awake at midlife, with runoff love to lavish
on neglected gardens and a skittish dog

 

whose scent-trails track the mute world
through the din of our domesticated peace.