Bespoke

Early April and there’s a light-footed feel. Nothing troubles from the darkened underbrush, and the sun’s late beauty daubs the green wood with yellows. As if for you, a thrush rills, blue pieces of silver that will dry like watermarks. Almost delicate, the hour around seven, a blown-glass bowl, edgeless and honed, made bespoke. Yet somewhere inside this evening hour, a man refutes: his fist will not burden the kitchen table. A wintered heart, hard as a knot of holly.