 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
|
|
|
|
At the edge of things time turns.
Its sound is tires on the interstate
And gulls that circle beside the lake.
In here it is still, or nearly still.
The leaves of the aspen shimmer
Like coins.
The hours in their leaving touch
One’s face so softly that you’d almost
Think they cared.
In the shade of the oak by the fence
That old brown dog, my life,
Makes a circle of itself
And rests.