My Painted Slowed-Down Longins
Beyond the window, the radiant holly has withered.
The weary evening is losing its face;
I slice it into thin slivers like Mom’s cake—
so it might last a little longer.
When, as a boy in springtime, I pruned the vines
in silence alongside my father, a startled little owl flew out
through the skylight near the chimney.
A wistful ache still lingers in my heart.
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