What will there be when this is done

I love the intimacy of the cardinal and sunflower. It’s not just food that attracts him, he is closer. It is that nearness, the neck over the face embrace, the kiss. The sunflower knows it was made for this moment, its whole being went into this: the height, the flower, the head of soft color that comes in early fall. The sunflower has endured: the bee, the hard rain and winds, the heat (oh, the heat), the finches who tear at its halo and then this. Just in the past two days, chickadees, more finches, a tufted titmouse and then this fellow. He has looked right at me as I stood at the window, as though to ask, what will there be when this is done?

Here's an older poem that wonders the same question.

Vacancy

The cats take their places of worship
around the quilted mound of my body
and like a benevolent god I rest under
their gaze. They purr their prayers
to the shadows, slender children moving
toward sleep. The room becomes silent
I am vigilant. The house settles, a dog shakes
its collar and, in the hallway, my son’s desk lamp
finally closes the darkness. He moves one day closer
to becoming a man.

I cannot stop the night.