Josephine Jacobsen(1908–2003)
Hourglass
"Flawless is the word, no doubt, for this third of May
that has landed on the grounds of Mayfair,
the Retirement C o m m u n i t y par excellence.
Right behind the wheels of the mower, grass
explodes again, the bare trees most tenderly
push out their chartreuse tips.
Bottle bees are back. Feckless, reckless,
stingless, they probably have a function.
Above the cardinal, scarlet on the rim
of the birdbath, twinning himself,
they hover, cruise the flowers, mate.
The tiny water catches the sky.
On the circular inner road, the lady
untangles the poodle's leash from her cane.
He is wild to chase the splendid smells.
T h e small m a n with the small smile,
rapidly steering his Amigo,2
bowls past. She would wave, but can't.
All around, birds and sexual flowers
are intent on color, flight, fragrance.
The gardener sweeps his sweaty face
with a khaki sleeve. His tulips are shined
black at their centers. They have c o m e along nicely.
He is young and will be gone before dark.
The man in the Amigo has in mind a May
a mirror of this, but unobtainable
as the touch of the w o m a n in that glass.
The sun's force chills him. But the lady
with the curly poodle could melt her cane
in the very heat of her precious pleasure.
She perfectly understands the calendar
and the sun's passage. But she grips the leash
and leans on the air that is hers and here.