-This poem reflects on the lower angle of autumn sunlight reaching farther into the kitchen, revealing crumbs, moving shadows, and gathered fruit as it briefly transforms the familiar room.
The morning sun comes farther in,
a golden bar across the pine,
it passes underneath the chairs
and reaches nearly to the stove.
The kettle clouds the lower glass,
a basket rests beside the wall,
and every crumb the broom has missed
burns briefly in the slanting light.
The maple moves across the boards,
its leaves enlarged against the grain,
a sparrow rises from the hedge,
its shadow skims the cupboard doors.
By noon, the band has crossed the room,
the floor returns to amber brown,
one pear rolls from the folded cloth
and stops beneath the table rung.