Again

To Be Here

They have lost their green
to the evening, my mimosas,
that time when shadows
darken the landscape
and everything is a varying shade
of black or deep blue.
The setting sun is yellow-orange
behind them. Their beans hang
from the vines lifelessly. There is no
movement in the air, no wind
to shake them up. It is that way
with life. We stand there, like small
or large trees, and we suffer
in times of drought and we thrive,
or we at least resemble something
thriving, when there is plenty--
times when the rain falls exactly
when it needs to and the rain leaves,
as if on cue: Exit, Stage Right, enter
Stage Left, Red Sun. The rain has fallen
hard this day. Now, night comes creeping
around in all of her reddish orange glory,
wondering if anyone is looking. She struts
her stuff, calming me as victim. I swoon
in admiration. I don't care if anyone
recognizes swoon as a word any longer.
I am swooning. Swanning. Watching the sky
grow darker, the red ball of fury behind her
vanishing with each passing minute, thinking
how glad I am to be here for this unfolding,
for this presentation, for this grand show
which fills me and moves me, fills my lungs
like the strangeness of air of the first breath.

*This should be in tercets, but I can't get it to format correctly