Eclogue

Dawn Potter

All the long day, rain

pours quicksilver

down the blurred glass.

gardens succumb to forest,

half-ripe tomatoes cling

hopelessly to yellow vines,

cabbages crumple and split,

but who cares?

Let summer vanish,

let the tired year

shrink to the width

of a cow path,

soppy hens straggle

in their narrow yard,

and every last leaf

on the maples redden,

shrivel, and die.

Nothing needs me,

today, but you,

sweet hand,

cupping the bones

of my skull.  Alas,

poor Yorick, picked clean

as an egg.

How rich we grow,

bright sinew and blood,

my eyes open, yours

blue.

[from How the Crimes Happened (CavanKerry Press, 2010)]