Twenty-four

In the silvery light of morning
when nothing else matters, save the thread
of a cock crowing in the distance; face
of my beloved etched stilly in that pale gleam
before sound, as might have existed
in the beginning, prior to clamorous tires
on asphalt; kettle set to boil dew-encrusted
leaves pinched shortly after sunrise
while the veil into worlds of the waking lifts
along with drowsy eyelids;

By the brilliance of high noon, ti blades
begin to droop, edges curling against
the intensity of tropical sunlight
while I contemplate the arbor,
uninstalled assemblage lying raw
and savage under dull tarps
and scattered leaves dropped
from deciduous overhangs, dappled
with rose and white blossoms lilting
on brisk breezes, harbingers of spring;

Come the waning shades of dusk, paragons pull
out paintbrushes to streak across
the heavens, sometimes carelessly,
though more often as if contemplated
from a distance, stroke here, blot there,
while white-winged egrets soar northward
to bed down in the ironwood-lined cleavage
of tiny cinder cone volcanoes decked
in velvety green.