Golden Hour

When sidelong rays 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.