Evening

The last of the days
sunlight coming down
through the sparse tops
of the old pine trees
reddening some branches
and not others

the sun
always further away
when you see it through high trees
a remote
celestial body

than when you see it
familiar
in a wide open sky

light makes it through
this old kitchen window
for forty minutes
every evening
this time of year
the only time any
direct
filtered
light comes in the kitchen. It
unsettles me

and while I hear the descending trills
of the robins
always last to bed
and though my hair is back
in a ponytail
and scarf
and I am even wearing
an old linen apron
with a print of cherries
and bluebirds
and my hands are covered in flour
and shiny with butter
from the pie I'm making
with the berries I picked
lacing homemade crust
and lowering the door
of this ancient oven
and shooing away children
from the yellowy and blue gas heat

here filters in anyway
an evening unease
that even the comfort
and safety
of the old-fashioned
can't save us from

what will save us:

when it is full dark
with crickets
and bullfrogs
and we eat this pie
and I jump on
and run the length of
the couch
and jump on
whomever's back can stand it
to catch me
and then chase the children
and make them shriek
with mostly thrilled delight
and one bit uncertainty

that sad sunlight of transition gone
from the window
the birds quiet
proper dark now

the relief of being here
and not inbetween
the almost gone
and almost come.