Sometimes what changes is what makes
the landscape finally familiar, why it never
is becalmed for long: the way the air’s clarity—
stabbed with golden light and glistening
like new skin on the birches— can’t stay
that way. A blur’s already unlatching the frame.
I know this even as my friend turns to me
and says, But surely you deserve some
happiness too? I’m rueful, I know. In that
still life by the window, for instance: my eye
is drawn not to the table with the creamy damask
and the plain but heavy silver. It’s the ochre veins
streaked through the magnolias, it’s their ivory
skirts beginning to droop from the lip of the urn.
It’s the crayon line of fuzz that outlines the too-
soft peaches in the bowl; and beside them, it’s the fly
that’s drowned and gone to heaven in their honey.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.