At This Hour
       

Say I am not wrong to want the two finches who ring out.

Say I've begun to lose my way—no one dies

from saying it, no one even turns in their sleep. Certainly I've fallen

into old patterns, the tile markings, the blue

of the milkmaid's apron in the painting, the boys' homework cascading

from the high table. And more—

the note saying "today I felt moody; I ate very little at lunchtime;

at nap I slept," that plus the hand-lettered sign

over the cafeteria freezer offering your choice of chocolate or skim

—it has a certain feel to it, easily it becomes life as we know it. Still,

there's something else. It's dawn now, the school busses flash

their warning lights. Even moments ago, I could feel it,

the sky purpling to blue, the leaves of the maple—

there's no maple but I do remember one, Japanese or red,

a companion from a dream—and there's more, just under the surface,

reticulating, pulled out to pasture, faithful in its disorder.

Or the disorder's me, I'm the object turning in the light,

and the two finches who know I'm alive

are turning too, very quickly—

very quickly headed they know not where.

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Copyright © 2011 Carol Ann Davis All rights reserved
from Atlas Hour
Tupelo Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission