With an edge of shine,
when the green world
was not made of ache,
when peas climbed posts,
oleanders shaded,
olives fell on the way,
goats ate the poison oak
and red carpenter ants
worked on the front porch,
when the smog of burns
made violet sunsets
sweet as layered cake,
you smiled the faintest
and held us together
through your playfulness.
There are times that stand
in intense sunshine
for self made men
failing to grasp
the exact nature
of this magical light,
that take photographs,
play phonographs
and tinkle away
in the middle of the night,
heavy, breathless,
blind except by touch.
But it fades. The mirror
that used to be a true friend
is darker, its lines bolder,
the picture, once a relic,
is proof of some kind of
unknowable omen.