Below is a short poem by John Updike, published in his last book of poetry, Endpoint. It’s a celebration of ordinary things—perhaps a good thing in the midst of 50 days of Eastertide. - Martha Murphree
Stretch
What light is tenderer
than that of early February
at 5:05 pm or so,
just trying brightness out?
The trash cans lie empty
and cockeyed on the curb,
the trees in the little park
had old snow in their shade,
but a bird’s rude song pierces
the cloud of expectant twigs
while a real cloud turns magenta
in the newly prolonged blue.