Late Summer, Early Morning, After Rain

As I push my delicate body 

up this incline I instruct 

myself to love 

limits. Through gates and over

bridges—across a street, past 

the eucalyptus, mums, and purple 

dahlias in the buckets outside 

the market where all I hear 

the child tell her mother is "and 

I love you." I think there should be 

asters there. Pink ladysthumb

also—how it endures along 

the river		the way 

home. 		Is this finished? 

I ask, pressing down on the sweating

zucchini and eggplant, softer 

now, right before I hear the door 

close behind me. When she's already 

gone there are days in the northern cove 

of the lake when the water is still, 

the air silent before the loon’s 

call and before the wind

reverses. There are also orange nights 

and mornings when the sun shines

faint and dim, a half-clear blue light—

and youth winters, young lovers 

fall and I—I am young.