michael hogan (July 14,1943 / Newport, Rhode Island)

In the late afternoon
when the stucco walls still hold
their heat like two lovers
clinging after the act of their joining,
the day pauses.
It waits with whatever hope remains
for the unfolding of the tenacious ivy
for the drooping eye of the jasmine finally to close
for the tender sheathing
of the gentle sex of the hibiscus.

It watches the sun
sagely unbusying himself
as the deepening shade of the palm
opens like a hand over the wall
and the hummingbirds scatter like neon fragments
back to their breathless nests.

For the second time I take
a battered blue teapot
and carry it brimming from the sink.
I go out and water the fig tree
watch its roots draw the liquid
like a desiccated sponge
like a green magnet
like a man
finding a lost spring in a desert
when he had almost surrendered desire.

How easy to love this place
this time without time
where already the cool breeze of the Sierras
has set the branches trembling
and death itself, simply
another side of a leaf.