Sad Cabin

Something of immediacy holds out,
Reluctant to leave, and plys a sense
Of resurgence in bee balm’s purple shoots
Poking through around the ruins.
To leave unchosen books behind
On the shelf may affect one thing,
But another to have left them for
The drape of a shedded snakeskin,
Far too capable of patience.

Left to itself, the colander
(Above where the sink was)
Would love to stipulate for us,
In its short-legged rise,
How determined the difference is
Between that which passes
And that which stays;
That we chose to live here
And ever moved away.

There were warblers everywhere
In the spring. A need for
Marked difference: wing-bar,
Eye-ring. I fail to name,
Again, what urgent significance
Breaks down into their soft,
Olive-yellow categories.
They will congregate
And lay their eggs

In hanging nests. It follows.
One thing happens, and the rest
Reflects on how to live with it.