Patricia Wellingham-Jones

Edges of the Day

The edges of the day—
those times when you sit
under shadowy trees
with a drink in your hand
and the promise of life ahead.
With the thought of surviving
another clock-span of heat
while you wonder 
if you can do it again.
Dew rimes each leaf,
a mourning dove awakens,
the day’s chores don’t seem
impossible.
Then the sun curdles the day,
turns it to lumps of heavy dough,
every step outdoors
slogs through molasses.
At the other end of the clock
the south breeze shivers the leaves
and we linger outside until
we can’t see. 
Tomorrow’s orange ball in the sky
starts the cycle again.