"The cardinal croons..."

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.