Alas--this beautiful June is almost over.

Late Afternoon in June


In this empty house,
In this empty room,
At last
              the holy hour.
When shade settles to the corners
And the urgent noises from the road slow
              until there are whole moments
                            perfectly soft
                            and silent
                            and still
                                          as grass.
Moments heavy
              with the exhaled breath of the long day.
Heavy with the sultry nightflowers just waking.
It's the hour when the yearling
              climbs up from the creek
                            to eat at the roses
              and the peonies
                            shake free their flounces.
When the mockingbird starts.
When the shards of late light
              set the begonias afire.
The holy hour of long shadows.


In other well lit kitchens there is chaos
And the braying of the network news.
In other kitchens,
              hungry children bleat and bounce.


But here
In this empty house
In this empty room
Is just the silence
              and the gathering
                            of purples.