Wednesday's Ash

---

Hooked rug covered

with upturned sunlight.

Blots like the butts

of cigarettes,

brown floorboards wet

with the verge of June.

Three slanting trees

weighed low by the noon,

myrtles near the fences.

Just seen, as long as

forever is, by the light

of the late afternoon.

The music of a cello

floats along the heads

of graves. It will be

the same grief flying

when peonies sprout

beneath the names.

Rows of dawn fan out,

collect like coins

in the offering plate.

Here, there, wistful we

are, always, for a new

and different world.