The fires have ended. It is a different
life. My neighbors climb through black
forests, green trying to grow new
willows. I wake with a wet face.
Morning peers through the shutters,
narrow ellipses of light. It paints
the white walls whiter. A shattered skin
of ice on the birdbath. Everything
is shutting down. The hummingbird
comes for the last honeysuckle blossom,
an iridescent whir in a pink-fingered hand.
Pale roses in the sheltered garden soak up
the briefer light, cast it back into early shade.