Ode to the Unsentimental

By which you do not mean the heart,
       unfeeling; nor the heart, encased
in an icy spell for its own unmaking.
       The seasons instruct in change:
even as the languid heat undresses,
       a speedier hand undoes the catch.
No time for lingering, except to linger
       in a room filled with simple light; no
call to pilfer coins it scatters freely
       at your feet. Bowl, water glass, figs 
softening on a tray—enough of need.
       Clear-eyed, unclouded: even as 
sweetness falls away, you want 
      the making of things that last.