The Night Belongs (sonnet)
toward the horizon and a hazy mauve
rises from the winter brush. Bird sowers
scatter seed, for squirrels, a feeding trove.
Flutt'ring wings and running deer and dark'ning
sky, the eve' is close, calm, flying bug lands
as I write and thanks for sun, spring coming,
slowly now, I know, yet, I understand.
I sense there's more a chill to be before
the thaw, the sun a hint to cheer my heart,
remind me of the good, courageous, sure
to come, after winter has done her part.
The orange ball's beneath the trees now, songs
of birds are heading home. The night belongs.
© Christine Salkin Davis, 2019