The cardinal croons from the heated rooftop
of the local church by the local bookshop.
I walk, reciting “J. Alfred Prufrock,”
enamored by all that I lay my eyes on.
Every season comes with a new beginning.
The world is blooming. My head is spinning.
The blade of sunset comes down, skinning
the evening to bleed on the warm horizon.
In the empty street, I’m a lone by-stander,
a witless witness to the wondrous splendor.
We used to love also, - do you remember? -
Now, I’m starting from scratch for a second take.
For it isn’t time, after all, that mends us, -
but the light, itself, that assaults our senses,
makes us carry on and provides no answers
to the questions posed, but relieves the ache.