Golden Hour

When sidelong hours reach deep
into the house, objects turn
unbearably distinct and I think

of girlhood, how the sinking golden light
had to be seized, like the last
mouthful of soda in a warm can shared

with my sister. Whether I wanted to or not,
I climbed higher in the tree, higher
than I even liked, to watch the back door

where my mother would appear
and call me in. For years now
a supper made by someone else

is all I want, but this late sun
keeps pressing in. The linen chair
beside the window looks more

salmon-hued and woven now
than at noon. And the not-chair
stretches long beside it. Shadows

sharpen and themselves become
objects filling the room. A child wakes
down the hall. Light gathers on the faces

of ranunculus in a mantle vase,
browning and collapsing
in their centers. I think I have been

sad every afternoon of my life.
Outside a child runs in the grass.
Soon I will appear and call her to me.

--Jennifer Polson Peterson