I’m stupefied by this clear light slanting into the kitchen,
shadows from the windowsill against the wall:
copper teapot, vinegar jar, and cheese grater
reduced to outline, pure form, elongated and distorted
by the angle of the sun. The season is winter:
magic spells to sour the milk, the window
catching fire with sunset, smear of orange
across the pine trees, a painted sky soaked
in roses, snow-blue at the horizon,
a long line of white clouds washing in.
I think this must be my last time driving
up the dirt road to the house this year.
From now on I’ll track mud in on my boots,
listen to the beaver bogs beautifully filling with silt.