It seems the sun is adamant and will not shrink this year. It comes to toast the bare branches, bleaching the twigs I see tangling afternoon air. Over there, it sparkles as flung back by persistently green hedge leaves which never give way to winter. This year it's the winter itself that's given way though. I'm never sure on waking anymore whether to expect light like spring or light more like spring. I'm always being fooled. I open the window and the inrush is chilly. Got me again!
The Crickets Sang
by Emily Dickinson
The Crickets sang And set the Sun And Workmen finished one by one Their Seam the Day upon.
The low Grass loaded with the Dew The Twilight stood, as Strangers do With Hat in Hand, polite and new To stay as if, or go.
A Vastness, as a Neighbor, came A Wisdom, without Face, or Name A Peace, as Hemispheres at Home And so the Night became.