These days morning with a deep honey light and air
is a lure that makes you hesitate—
as though abundance under the brimming sky
will require the utmost you can give,
as though the enclosure of late summer—
blossoms heavy with sweetness,
and leaves relinquishing green to truer colors,
a coming syrup that will drip down—
will hold you accountable
for such weight, until you are convinced
this might once last forever, and are fearful.
These mornings, just rising is like looking up
life in the encyclopedia, for explanations
that fill all need to know.
The paisley growth around you
refuses to take you in.
In the end, there’s nothing to be done
but make your vague way among the gardened flowers,
snip a faded bloom, pinch back a token of overgrowth,
and to refrain from crushing,
as though reverence for the delicate
amid such denseness