Suddenly, there's nothing to do and too much— the lawn, paths, woods were never so green white blossoms of every size and shape—hydrangea, Chinese dogwood, mock orange spill their glistening— Inside, your photographs and books stand guard in orderly array. Your half of the bed is smooth, the pillows plump, the phone just out of reach beyond it. No one calls early—they remember your late hours. The shades are down, so sunlight's held at bay though not the fabulous winged song of summer birds waking me as ever, always in our favorite room, our season. Yesterday's mail on the desk newspaper, unread. Plans for the day hover bright out all our doors— Don't think of evening.