These lush, rewarding reflections on a womans passage into midlife are grounded in our intimacy with nature and mortality. Deborah Digges, now in her fifties, looks back in such poems as Boat to see younger mothers and their children, and ponders her own brilliant, trivial unmooring. As she wanders from the garden to the barn and into the woods, she finds her moods mirrored in the calendar of the seasons, making lush music of the materials at hand and accepting the seismic changes in her life with an appreciation for the incidental scraps of beauty she chances upon. Throughout these luminous poemswhich touch movingly on the illness and loss of her husbandDigges marvels at the brio with which we fling ourselves daringly into the night:See how the first dark takes the city in its armsand carries it into what yesterday we called the future.O, the dying are such acrobats.Here you must take a boat from one day to the next,or clutch the girders of the bridge, hand over hand.But they are sailing like a pendulum between eternity and evening,diving, recovering, balancing the air.