All day in the garden
only the shade of the birch tree
slowly retreated,
the house–shadow grew.
All day in the garden
I spoke not a word, lifting
an eye from my reading to note
the indifferent traffic of the sky.
No sound in the garden.
It is the silent month for birds.
Only a blackbird, finished with mating
foraged the lawn.
Over the garden the swifts
tirelessly circled. Knowing no clocks
how could they measure
the length of this day?
© The Estate of Dorothy Cowlin 1998–2021. All rights reserved.