March 10

On Thursday, not long after
nine, I was pulled
out of my window by the
gentle smoke of long grass
and that sweet smell of wax
drawn out and worked,
so piously, by women with
no more than a matter
of weeks to live, to be filled
with the treasured wares
of the first open flowers. Through

the rectangle panes
and decades of layered paint
I sigh at the passing arrowhead
of birds, unashamed of my
ignorance to their destination,
consenting to my temporary
terrestrial and time-bound
place. Secure in the unknowable

future blowing across the stone
courtyard, past the 1930’s silos
and hay barn, shaking my desk
and the water in my glass and
stirring the piles of paper, I
resume my morning in a
warmer and brighter world.