Sunday Poetry: More Robert Ward

A Moment

This afternoon tranquil light sifts green, gold
draws leaves, tones the impressionists coveted
and never precisely described. But this is too much

for canvas, words, best to simply enjoy, let illumination
bathe away tension. A flicker's click-click-click stitches
a sough; long grass near the back fence stirs: either

the breeze or a cat's stealthy passage...the squirrel
prancing the fence's rail top makes the question moot.
Tabbytoes hunts again. A steady, if inept hunter. Popcorn

heated to bursting, bush tits pop into existence midst
the walnut's pendant leaves, vanish back, pleasing
to watch, though obscure in motivation; texture

shaping the afternoon. Though the sun's slanting
away now, heat enough to stir honey's heavy scent,
pleasing as any perfume. The garden could be watered,

cultivated, but so much movement, such mystery,
suggests that tomorrow will be a better day for labor;
some moments are only to be enjoyed, lived, treasured.