Beyond the bay window, before
the browning grass, there sits a square
sundeck, its seats empty, its stones
softening in the August air,
heated to extremes by the sun,
which is high above the house.

I am seated inside the house,
gazing through the glass, awaiting
the setting sun, the cooling bronze,
which will, for a time, spread on the sun-
deck the warmth of welcome, before
the event, before the light-death.

A Message from the Editors

Our past successes are owed to our greatest ambassadors: our readers. Our future rests on your support, as The New Criterion Editor Roger Kimball explains. Will you help us continue to bring our incisive review of the arts and culture to the next generation of readers?

This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 36 Number 4, on page 37
Copyright © 2018 The New Criterion |