Saturday Morning, Alone At Last

I feel tired
as late summer, drawn,
golden as my tea.

I watch the birds
in their quick-numbered
moves, who seem to know

exactly what to do
as they make short work
of the downcast sunflowers.

I stop asking myself
whether or not I’m happy
and change the stems

in the vases, grind the salt,
let morning shadows
steep into me

as light begins
threading the house
room by room,

resting my hand
upon the page,
watching the season go.


Jennifer Burd