On the edgeless map of the reliable world
a man stands on the star
that is his house, his garden
unfurling in open fans—small blue prayer
of forget-me-nots, raspberries leaping
in the vine's imagination, fists of peony
promising their red abandon.
It is the porous border of summer,
mirage of trees, clouds
floating like years over the mountains.
He has traveled far in his heart
to come to this full quiet
to witness weather stepping
across the lake toward him
like an ordinary saint bringing the news:
another whole day, loved.