The Tedium of the
Days that Follow

                                                               for Linda

There is little left to see, so don’t
be alarmed. They stopped writing
songs that matter. You read every story.
The light keeps repeating itself on hills,
the snow, the same alpenglow you saw
a thousand times, the few seeds in maples lit,
orange lanterns dimming. You will not need
them when you go. The clocks are tedious.
I’ve tasted bread like this before, and chicken
roasted in butter and thyme. I use the same
recipe. It smells the same, the lemon cake,
the chocolates, the pie. Someone will
say something about politics; someone
will say something about love you would
recognize if you heard, recognize what will come:
dusk deepening blue, those mountains
disappearing into shadow we can see inside,
finches sleeping inside that, quiet, breathing,
the same yellow you saw every winter,
that perhaps you could not get over, that perhaps
made you say out loud, Look, look at the goldfinch
at the feeder making beauty new every time.
Help me learn to leave it all behind.