Afternoon Extravagances

By Michael Dechane

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I notice the utter absence
of war falling on me
or my neighbors.
Small, quiet sounds
lie down in a nest
of bright silence.
A yellow door swings open
in the possibilities of this

afternoon. Gratitude
comes in to show me
my kitchen table’s still
life of ephemera—
the cracked white vase
of Japanese anemones
Ginny brought from her garden;

their shadows bow
to the sun in my bowl;
lentils offer steam to the air;
a faithful pair of quail
sit, bellies full of salt
and pepper; my hand
at rest beside a spoon.
And all of this brings me

quick to the emptiness
of the other chair.
Beauty. Stillness. Nothing

may distract me
from imagining you
there. Here, whoever
reads this, this
is your last gift
to me, today: you alive
in the wide-gashed world
that sometimes opens
in such lavish welcome.