With
evening,
the two or three colors of the yard grow tired.
The great frankness of the full moon
no longer inspires its habitual firmament.
Yard, in league with sky.
The yard is the slope
down which the sky pours itself into the house.
Serene,
eternity waits in the stars’ crossways.
How grateful to live in the dark friendship
of a vine, a cistern, and a tumbleweed!
