Tomatoes on window sills,
a ridge that ripens red.
Behind the pane firm fruit,
sun blushing the hills.
What calls me from my perch
on the porch to kick up piles
of leaves, peel parchment
bark off this birch, and then
stride down where this grove
tilts to the rocky shore
which holds the lake, which
holds the hills in opal
haze, water I’ve slept
beside like a woman?
When it turns to winter ice,
I shall take my leave.