.
AT SIX THIRTY-SEVEN
.
When I looked out this morning, light was everywhere
In the rose clouds and on the green lawns, lush as carpet.
It filtered in streaks and rays between the blossoms
And the new, golden leaves.
The birds sang in it and were happy to fly
As if on the substance of light itself
As if held aloft by its tension and curve
And at the speed of its dream.
Copyright 2015
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