[Aaron Poochigian]

Garden Sonnet

Summer's end, its stillness, sees me sip
on wine and sink into that risky chair.
Some afternoons I lose myself and slip
my moorings; all that's me takes to the air
and leaves me newer eyes. The garden's filled
with floating seeds: an alien invasion,
curious, adrift and lost, but thrilled
by their mistake, their scale miscalculation.
Parachutists gather on my shirt,
land in my drink, so light the liquid's skin
performs that sticky buoyant trick, alert
to any touch, and clings. Sounds begin:
the world is never still. I see one gleaming
sparrow's wing and look! The sky is teeming.