The Light
Janine Canan
Even the trees are nervous. The light stays too late. The city is rimmed by an orange glow that reaches up to the night. The moon, little boat, holds an onyx guest. Venus steps out of the sky. An airplane--or a rocket--glides between them. The house contains warmth till well after dark. Meals last the whole night--steamed vegetables, garlic effervescences, ices melting in amber. The poet steps to her typewriter. A white cat lies languorously across the table. Acacias have burst wide open, and lavender lips of wisteria curl over their hard bud cases. The harbor floods with light.