Late May, Late Afternoon

After Jane Kenyon’s “Let Evening Come” on her birthday

Let the light of late afternoon
call the chickens back to the yard
but not yet into the coop to roost.

Let the mower crank and roar
as the man rushes to fit in
one more chore before dinner.

Let the warm shovel handle
and the blade sunk in the bed
retire upright in the garden.

Let the swallows dip and weave
to catch the bugs hovering
as heat and breeze both die

and let the lake go to glass,
tiny ripples and shadows
making the scene a woodcut,

and let the canoe paddle dip
and trail a necklace of drops
onto the bureau mirror of itself.

Let the pheasant clear its throat
and ticks burrow into the blood
and the warblers warble.

Days grow longer and longer
even as they are fewer, and still —
the light calls us to lift ourselves

like a sheet unclipped from the line
lofted, rising high over the bed,
releasing its scent as it drifts down.