for Robert Penn Warren It shines in the garden, in the white foliage of the chestnut tree, in the brim of my father's hat as he walks on the gravel. In the garden suspended in time my mother sits in a redwood chair: light fills the sky, the folds of her dress, the roses tangled beside her.
And when my father bends to whisper in her ear, when they rise to leave and the swallows dart and the moon and stars have drifted off together, it shines. Even as you lean over this page, late and alone, it shines: even now in the moment before it disappears.