The Pink-Blue Time

The day moves into
the pink-blue time
and I hold vigil
as dandelions and nettles
stand with their dignity
with purple bells
fake and merry
across the green holding
feathers in the wind
soon to be flattened
after the fence gets rattled
by the vixen as she flies
over with her bread
from two doors down
for her cubs as the brimstones
no longer fluorescent
or flapping in the sun
get carried away
with the tiny blues
and the woodpecker won’t
drum for a while now
but the garden will
go on, you see
in a time of its own.