In the garden as night comes on

A poem by James Richardson ...

One of the Evenings

After so many years, we know them.This is one of the older Evenings — its patience,settling in, its warmth that wants nothing in return.Once on a balcony among trees, once by a slipping river,so many Augusts sitting out through sunset —first a dimness in the undergrowth like smoke,and then like someone you hadn’t noticedhas been in the room a long time. . . .It has seen everything that can be done in the dark.It has seen two rifles swing aroundto train on each other, it has seen lovers meet and revolve,it has seen wounds grayscale in low light.It has come equally for those who prayed for itand those who turned on lamp after lampuntil they could not see. It deals evenhandedlywith the one skimming downstairs rapidly as typing,the one washing plates too loudly,the one who thinks there’s something more important,since it does not believe in protagonists,since it knows anyone could be anyone else.It has heard what they said aloud to the moon to the starsand what they could not say,walking alone and together. It has gotten overI cannot live through this, it has gotten over This did not have to happenand This is experience one day I will be glad for.It has gotten over How even for a momentcould I have forgotten? though it never forgets,leaves nothing behind, does not believe in stories,since nothing is over, only beginning somewhere else.It could be anywhere but it is herewith the kids who play softball endlessly not keeping score,though it’s getting late, way too late,holding their drives in the air like invisible moons a little longer,giving way before them so they feel like they’re running faster.It likes trees, I think, it likes summer. It seems comfortable with us,though it is here to help us be less ourselves.It thinks of its darkening as listening harder and harder.