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  Geraniums

Rhapsody in the stillness of an August evening,
the light broadening against the pines—big, big

ascensions where a single bird drifts from limb
to limb or pine to pine, or, perhaps, to the oak.

Incidental musics acquire in the afterlight—a dog
barks twice, the lawn being sprinkled, truck tires

spin in loose gravel as insects hum; lithe rhapsody
of stillness in this mid-summer light. The porch flag

limp in the evening heat, the barbeque coals fade
to shimmering gray; potted geraniums glow fiery red.

My wife's washed car shines in the driveway—her
license plate. My wife's broad reach bends over
      a flowerbed.

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