I cannot write this morning
well enough, though it rises in me—
the glamorous sun
surrounded by the red fame of dawn,
the pasture sending up its fanciest
dragonflies, electric blues and ecstatic emeralds,
to stitch the sunrise to the sweltering
afternoon. Before that mid-day heat and noise
erupts, I recognize the frail song of cardinals.
It is like cotton candy melting into me,
the ether of it makes me hungry for more. Soon,
they will retreat into shade and into stillness.
Knee-high, the grass whispers together
and the moment floods me. From somewhere
a wind chime dangles notes in the air.
The pines swing their incense into the breeze
like a prayer. The risen sun sets the cicadas to work,
their melodies like muffled flint striking the day