Stains

Sitting on the patio, the honeyed light of late October

Spilling over me like a glass of pinot grigio as the day

Melts into evening, both of us a little blurry around

The edges with the long week starting to ease from

Our shoulders into the soon-to-be-Saturday hours,

I see the garden has gone the way of summer and

Marvel with my old friend Time that we are here,

This far into the year that started yesterday and

Has spilled through our fingers, a few stains on the

Tablecloth to remember the crusty softness of that

Sourdough with garlic oil, the cab franc we drank

To your raise, the steak we devoured to the dogs’

Dismay. The sky, dear lord, is so soft a blue I can

Almost believe in heaven, and true, there is infinity

Beyond. But Time and I have only so long to sit

Together and watch the sun drop red as Newton’s

Apple (if his apple were an orange), so I will

Etch the hour with the crescent moon cool as

A fingernail upon my cheek then sit for supper and

Whatever else may be caught in the evening’s web.

10/28/2022