I Reject the Perpetual Lie of Noon
The night attenuates the springtime limbs.
The light, such as it is, depletes their blooms
That in the sun were more than April whims
But now seem waiting for harsh showers, dooms.
But not this evening. No. The gentle light
Combined with gentle air produces mild
Premonitions. Death seems only as slight
As whitest flimsy petals unreconciled
To anything but loveliness and life.
It is as if the deepened twilight air,
Suffused with just a whisper from some strife,
Could, just by gesturing, defeat despair.
Yet in the ordinariness of now
The autumn midnights come. I make my bow.