by Ann Neuser Lederer
At first a pluckable fruit, the sun
spins into forbidden,
an unbearable white disc.
Roofers alight, sipping
their coffee, girding
for the climb,
as boys into trees.
All at once, the sun
ascends.
The trees relax their fists.
Yesterday, a story was whispered around,
regarding a child wandering
into hospital rooms at night,
beckoning, not speaking,
everyone hearing speculating
on just what spirit this could be.
Now, the rising day
hushes the birds,
as the glass chimes settle.
