The Remainder of the Day
The day is releasing its last breath of life,
giving up the sun-ghost of eons past,
while I sit on my patio with my stack
of medical books—
all open—
in front of me,
my husband and daughter playing blocks inside
for him to trip or step on later.
I watch them through the window—
the amber lamplight a contrast to the
moonlit, twilight-dark—
lavender and periwinkle
overlapping.
The window frames this little world
that I have stepped outside of
so that I can do what I must do
to hold it all together.
