Evensong Just now, at evensongthe gray sky holdsits last bloom of light.A tree branch,dense and delicatein charcoal gray,bears the weight of a single white throat.Can I learn to holdeach moment dear,as clear as I can seethat sparrow settlingfor the night? I might.Perhaps it’s not too late. In Middlefield(Confessions of a Bootleg Buddhist) We have walked over white countrywatched raptors waiting on their high boughs. We have murmured our joy to one anotherbreathed steaming puffs, remembered the invisible. We have renewed our vowsto what has been, is, and may yet be. We have been mindful, seen and feltand we would reserve judgement if we could. Which just now we cannot do, since we aresurrounded by comfort and joy. Questions (Note to Self) Can I not stumble backand let desire blunder past?Can I not tracknot craving but the lastand hardest needlein the stack—compassion? Lynne Moody has worked as a waitress, fashion model, Head Start teacher, public health physician, mother, community activist, exhibiting visual artist, and writer. Born in South Florida, educated in the Northeast, she now lives in Atlanta with her husband. She has published scientific prose, and she began reading and writing poetry in 2001, after the death of her father. She writes about relationships, encounters with animals and plants, war and ecological issues, aging, love, and death. After an almost fifteen year apprenticeship, she is beginning to publish her poetry.