On my 55th

Through dawn, noon & dusk, grass goes
     —clumsily juggled—
and sumac works quietly at the edge (or slows!)

 and  what the killer is  —woken or alive—
or isn't, comes only by going to the kill

Still you're kissed by the book (as the weak are)
  poem at a time,
and tea and the hour don't mix anymore

Safety in touch, at the doors, and any relief
from intolerable grief (my dear!)

  fine for now,
  will go for the kill

(as you know)