women on the veranda

Box elder shadows lie across the twilit rail

like tatting no one bothers to gather up

and mend, this end of day, years ago, autumnal

the air suggests, a lavaliere of fading

sun, what's left of wind at vespers, O not so

 

melancholic, as one might think. How softly

spoken, that dove just now, those wrens

unsettled at the eaves, mother and daughter

on the swing, the wicker glider, at rest

against the balustrade. How simply chiaroscuro

 

a mise-en-scene, more gauzy past the sidewalk

as lamps come on and leaf smoke lingers,

and houselights, momentarily, bejewel the

avenue. What's said in undertones is out

of hearing beyond the lawn, say to a boy in hiding

 

inside the privet, though he enjoys the musicale

of voices and silhouettes at languor

after dinner and more the over ripe patchouli

they exude, on the verge of ecstasy

and decay. Night is coming on and still

 

the women stay. The moon unveils its radiance.

A luff and lull and coolness through

the branches and soon, how soon, they stir

to leave, to shed their lightly haloes

and let the cricket colloquy swell and hold sway.

 

--Miguel de O

 

Done