Made heavy by rain,
the heads of hydrangea
droop to the ground.
I do not come
looking for trouble—
Nor do I want to take away
your joy. Leaves
of the dogwood tipped
silver, leaves
of the ginkgo
spliced open
like fans—
At a certain hour,
one by one, each
evening almost
like a birthday:
street lamps
flicker on.
In response to Via Negativa: Birthday of Desire.
Found myself relaxing in this poem as in a hammock. Thank you, Luisa.