Sunday morning, summer
Across the lake perhaps they hear her flute. She stands on our verandah, plays the scale And songs she learned last winter -- resolute And artless, leaning there against the rail, One bare foot keeping time. The music owns The morning: solemn, careful note, wood-pure, Fill empty space like early light, and tones That shape the summer day sound plain and sure. Passive, hunched, beneath an opal sky, Two fishermen in watercolor poses Rest their oars, and on the store nearby Half-hid behind a screen of cottage roses A woman in a cotton wrapper stands And holds an orang e, half-peeled, in her hands.