Late May

Now the mock orange sprawls in white blossom
over the white fence collar, leaning at ease, unshaven:
the June rain has not yet imposed its punishment
for extravagant foliation and flower. It will come

– or not, as the new gods ordain. Once I knew
the weather in the seeds of my bones: not now.
now there are steps missing, as I trip downstairs
to death’s cluttered basement: whoops! I land

too hard amid the unfinished projects, a jolt,
a hint of whiplash. Too soon! But it’s always like that,
I guess, so the old books say. Nobody says:
“Oh! Death! Right on time, I was expecting you!”

Wheel, wheel, old gray sky, wheel over my head,
ask for one more day of daily bread,
my intercessor, my old protector,
my forgiver and my inspector,
wheel once more: and then to bed.