The New Hour

This is the end, finishing

the way all things do:

seasons of baseball,

birthday parties, bells

ringing.

One day we are bounding along,
cheering and listening,
making bets and lists.
Then find ourselves walking amid

the strewn bags of

stepped-on peanuts,

the cake-smeared party hats,
the lost bets.

There is a ringing through the body

of the quiet tongue.

No chatter or music,
just the silent new hour.