Golden Hour

When sidelong hours reach deep

into the house, objects turn

unbearably distinct and I think

of girlhood, how the sinking golden light

had to be seized, like the last

mouthful of soda in a warm can shared

with my sister. Whether I wanted to or not,

I climbed higher in the tree, higher

than I even liked, to watch the back door

where my mother would appear

and call me in. For years now

a supper made by someone else

is all I want, but this late sun

keeps pressing in. The linen chair

beside the window looks more

salmon-hued and woven now

than at noon. And the not-chair

stretches long beside it. Shadows

sharpen and themselves become

objects filling the room. A child wakes

down the hall. Light gathers on the faces

of ranunculus in a mantle vase,

browning and collapsing

in their centers. I think I have been

sad every afternoon of my life.

Outside a child runs in the grass.

Soon I will appear and call her to me.