The Balcony

Scented footsteps lead me to the balcony where she
stands replanting my lavender that the squirrels
dug up to hide winter-food. Smiles, a breath, she
leaves to clean the earth from her nails.

I bring myself down to the chair, the air wants to
carry the last seven weeks of summer with it. I am
accompanied by a text about bees and a chablis.

She returns to un-empty the chair across from me
to read Colbert. It is our favorite time
of day, this stasis. There is all time.

Can’t put a color to the sky I say looking past her
and over the beech tree with birdfeeders. She’ll
agree; even the clouds aren’t quite white.

I’ve run out of wine I say and set down my text to
retreat indoors and fetch a new glass and one for
you too my dear and she nods. Pouring is
impossible when she tilts her head back to laugh at
a particularly outrageous passage. My bees are not
that funny.

Returning with the wine, she sighs and stretches.
The best part of being awake– we can’t tell if the sun
will stay for three hours or thirty minutes but it
certainly smells like the end of a day.

And so we read until the light fails in its duty to
illuminate the page and we fall indoors again;
clockworks keeping time with the heart.

She’ll sing. I’ll ponder. We’ll collide.

Breezes from the balcony now that fill the house
with promise of night. Candles, light houses.