There is a certain quality to the slant of light
across the porch railings' calligraphy of time-ringed wood;
the settling summer's ripening laying lower the fields;
these silent chronicles in the worn creases of my hands.
Clouds sculpting across the egg-blue skin of sky,
shimmering off the gilding leaves, golden rods, queen's lace,
the arguments of grass,
the black bird's rowing wing.
This light now shifting,
threading over us
like the bright-beaded
looms of love.