Afternoon as threshold,
precipice. Mid-week,

mid-month, equipoise
and the cry of a woodpecker.

They say the snow’s
all done, and now

that it’s light
later we hacked

back the blueberries
that won’t produce,

severely,
taking them down

to the ground,
provoking life

from dormancy,
or: hoping.

An hour later, still,
shears in hand

going at spouts
and suckers

in the bay laurel,
getting dark out,

and cold, still,
to bring order!

An evening act,
as suburb lights

like unblinking eyes
go on one after another