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.