August in Ashfield
By Jennifer Barber
A rudimentary bird
dents the air with a single note.
Doubled in the lake, the pines
are pointing their crowns
at the darker water in the middle,
colder, farther from the earth,
like the Leopardi poem
I’ve read a hundred times
where a deep quiet
replaces the pulse,
allowing your light
through a breach in the afternoon.
Then you’re gone, a gust
scattering needles at my feet.
Copyright © 2021 by Jennifer Barber.