Harmony Lane

Our house is open to the air
of last night’s rain, to birdsong
and shadow of pine trees.

Remnants of a hurricane
from Mexico
paint Sierra mountains,
a dull varnish on the ridge,
a cloudy coating on the sky.

All these things are pages in a book of days.

They turn like oak leaves in the breeze.
They are as weeds, and wasps, and butterflies.
They are read in the colors of the field.

In painting this picture

I give you a window and a view,
an understanding that the road here dead ends,
that the dark is splendid
and the stars unlimited.