Last light blazes horizontally through
the urban jungle of volunteers in all shades
of green, around the thick, old sycamore
flashing leaves the size of bread plates.
Sunbeams strike the century-old house,
turning its pink stucco vaguely tangerine.

On the deck, two slender ficus rise from
their pots, grateful to spend summer outside,
unaware that coming cooling nights will
require relocation inside over winter.

On the lawn the orange cat snoozes
belly up, more golden than usual
in the waning light, his spine comfortably
twisted, rabbit feet twitching on some dreamy
adventure. The older brown tabby stalks
tiny bugs lifting skyward, swats at them
with surprising speed for an old girl.

And you, caretaker of this place for now,
sit crossed-legged on the grass, remember
sultry evenings when, just over there,

small nieces and nephews splashed in
a blow-up pool, when young men wielded
long-handled forks and spatulas before
a spherical black barbecue, when elders
sat in homemade Adirondack chairs
on the deck they helped build, hands
wrapped around cold beer bottles,

when, for a spot of a moment,
family gathered for occasions
you can no longer name—

when you were half of that couple,
when he still breathed,
when you tumbled into bed,
exhausted and happy, next to him,
the one with whom you made this place
a home.