The Drunkard's Garden

You could place but never name

the ache for the thing that wasn't

gone, but could be sometime soon.

Not summer exactly, more

the cusp between, when the spider

grows too large.  To ache is to push against

his thread so far but fail

to break it.  To pluck it 

might sound like a harp string.

Then to pull bac, duck under,

leaving it still intact, tight.

Between the time when the light,

because it's lost all its heat,

feels like some cruel joke, 

and the time when the whole day

was meant to just lay down 

in the sun-sticky grass and sleep it off.

I planted this because I don't want to see

one more ugly thing.  Because to stop 

now would be unnatural,

would mean a constant refusal.

Because even the winter onions,

every tiny pearl is a yes.

--Daneen Bergland