Sift last light left from June day’s heat
whisked by hot winds through ash and maple
leaves stirring dark silhouettes bruising roofs
until you almost smell the steam
shingle, tar, horses, mint

layered with windrowed hay
for tomorrow’s baling fields now
just a black smear, molasses
blotting out what might be golden
cornbread the western horizon

toss in two handfuls of blue
clouds spun like cotton candy
clinging to the stainless steel tank
still full of the last batch of rose sunset

shafts of light beginning to streak
up trails all the way from the barn
windows their yellow glow newly
cracked eggs with yolks almost
orange from cage free pullets

scurrying away from owl song
no beating now, for this sauce will break
the batter become tough as an old hen
rather fold everything together gently
lift each spoonful wherein is an image
burned behind your eyes before

you followed in last cats and let day linger
on your finger as you ferried it to waiting
lips to taste once more this melding
so many ingredients marbled

into what nestles now under half dome
night, the last one before Solstice, this last
bit of longest day before stealthy stealing
begins minute by minute and tonight will
have erased itself from memory, just crumbs

the lot of it melting away like MacArthur Park
cool green icing flowing down to write
how you’ll never have this recipe again.