By Kay Parke
/ Poetry /
The sweetness of a summer peach on the tongue,
daylily’s orange bloom lasts a single sun’s round,
day’s crimson hour at dusk,
morning’s pink foggy lifting
before the burning August sun
burnishes all with gleaming copper,
morning birdsong, afternoon drowse,
all lead to running down…
cessation, letting go of what
we, though irremediable, irredeemable,
have hoped for, longing for no more
than the glory that is this present moment.