Any second now I’ll stop
listening to myself talk
and pay attention
to the birds and buds,
that are saying something.
The rosebush shadow
sharpens more
each morning
against the stucco wall.
In another week or two
I won’t be able to
distinguish substance from form,
roses from engravings by the sun.
Maybe this
is what Plato was referring to
in another
arid country: our picture
of the world
seemingly more vivid
than the world itself.
A red-breasted robin
colors my deliberation,
alighting beside the red
pyracantha berries he
loves to eat as much as I
love to watch him eat.
