III

by Robert Farnsworth

A year ago the finch’s undulant yellow flight
would not have so pierced me.  It would have

seemed too soon to think about death, even
shyly, sincerely.  Slate blue seconds of early June

shuffle and glitter toward me from the sensible
limit the eye must seek, and toward which this

petal-strewn cape swings out.  I belong to this
spatial understanding, as the beetle on that railing,

its brass back bulged like the head of a screw,
belongs to its feelers’ divinations.  Distance

answers something permanent in me.  Our children
stroll across the meadow, back from reading

the stained shale pages of the cliffs.  Polished
paths of morning calm meander out to sea.