The heads of roses begin to droop. The bee who has been hauling her gold all day finds a hexagon in which to rest. In the sky, traces of clouds, the last few darting birds, watercolors on the horizon. The white cat sits facing a wall. The horse in the field is asleep on its feet. I light a candle on the wood table. I take another sip of wine. I pick up an onion and a knife. And the past and the future? Nothing but an only child with two different masks. = Karen Marek