Poem 39: Fall Sunset

Whether there is wisdom
in noticing, while raking damp,
curled leaves in the back yard,
by the broken fence and under
a dead bough still hanging
from the neighbor's tree,
that even a sunset that cuts
the day short at 4 p.m.
can make the horizon blush,
I don't know. Gray is softened,
our bungalow looks warm,
and our daughter is playing
on the stairs. Nine years ago,
there was fog on the day
of a November full moon
and it lifted. We sprung
into this.