The light is turning off. Charcoal
On our palms streaks the grass,
The trees. Because the whole
Picture is too bright, the stones
Too round, the green too green,
Because the freedom of the air
And leaves is frightening, the clean
Freedom of our eyes, the little bridge.
But our return as we reorient,
Gives life again to the meadow inside,
The birds sing more, our eyes assent.