morning poem, august 28, 2016



The brown wren lights on the front stoop

And twitches her head right and left

Looking over the bed of four-o-clocks

Not yet awakened from the night

Overtop them crawl the vines of morning glories

Purple trumpets, bold now

This is their time of day.


And now the wren is gone

And though I cannot see it as it happens

The glories begin to close

And the gold and scarlet four o’clock flowers

Start to uncurl

As if they have heard the first whisper of

Their own moment of blossom.



Copyright 2016

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