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.