Morning sun illuminates the wagon wheel
of spider web outside the window
bleaches the manila envelope
stabs of light after days of rain.

Eyes squint because they can
heat on faces reduced by degrees
as the burning balloon ascends over roofs.
Chimney smoke gray, but that moss patch

green.  A sun just hidden by trees
sifts less brutal beams, more mystery
play of paint on leaves, how blobs
become shadow and light, that birds

suspended in sky suggest but are not
flight.  Bite of ice left in air strains sunshine,
golden needles across cedars.  Every item
on the desk has its moment:  Christmas cactus

that never blooms, 10:20 the clock with
no batteries, bright glue on manila tongue
and the thermometer:  38 degrees.
Cardinals and squirrels squabble on the beech.

Fall of light folds box patterns into chain
link fence, hundreds of them.  We are called
to kneel in violets and half sun counting honey
combs, hollow days waiting for spring.

©2003 Elizabeth Kerlikowske
Courtesy of  Big  Scream

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