The kind you’re born with, the kind you choose, the kind that teach Catholic school
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Already afternoon, already this day backing away, rolling out of reach,
all the morning’s busyness — e-mail, phone messages,
the run along Bayview, sunlight across the road, the smell of wet earth,
snow, manure, and pine along the cow pasture; earlier, too,
those whispers, sparrows at first light,
the brusque crow of love, all the heart’s kindling.
The cats find us, the calico stretching out on top of the sofa,
the ginger-and-white asleep on the rocker. You, on a chair
across from me, reading Anam Cara and making notes,
don’t look up, say nothing I can use to turn this
into a poem. 4:20, already the light dark as blue coal.